


The Kept

by barbaricyawp



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saito keeps Arthur as a geisha. Eames guards and lusts after Arthur. This doesn't work out well for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr. Saito keeps six of his companions in this house.”

Eames rolls his eyes at the word “companion.” Mr. Saito’s secretary, a refined French woman wearing incredibly expensive heels, hasn’t necessarily divulged the paltry secrets of Mr. Saito’s “summer home,” but she doesn’t need to. The information is basically laid before anyone who cares to glimpse. 

Madame Cobb is simply too polite to call it what it is: a house of whores.

Last month, Eames wouldn’t have taken this position for prolonged exposure to a dozen whores, much less six. He doesn't appreciate blatant affluence, he doesn't like being in countries where he can't speak the language, and he really doesn't like seeing what he can't have. 

But certain events have… _adjusted_ his willingness to work for Mr. Saito, powerful business tycoon and-apparently-a closet pervert. Which more or less explains why Eames is touring a mansion in rural Japan, lugging a rucksack of all his possessions not squirreled in secret storage.

“You have been charged with our Arthur.” Mrs. Cobb stops with a neat click click of her expensive heels and Eames nearly runs into her. They are positioned outside a Western style door at the end of the hall. Saito seems to prefer mixing the Japanese aesthetic with Western architecture. Although, the house's color palette seems to be mostly monochromatic. The carpet is a plush, bright white to match the light beige walls. He's seen a couple of paintings, but they're subdued ink washes of nature scenes and fruit. Painfully tasteful. 

“Arthur,” Eames repeats. “Not very Japanese, is he?”

“Half.” Mrs. Cobb knocks on the door as she responds. “Do try not to bring it up, won’t you?”

Eames shrugs and watches the door, but it does not open.

Mrs. Cobb sighs. “Arthur must be out. We will come back later, Eames.”

“No honoraries, Mrs. Cobb?”

Mrs. Cobb quirks a smile and its tight around the edges. “No, Eames. Here, we go by our first names.”

“All except Mr. Saito, that is.”

Mrs. Cobb’s polite smile cracks into a grin. “Yes, but you may call me Mal if you like. Come. I’ll show you your room.”

“When will I meet our employer?”

Mal sighs. She is already on her way down the hall. “When he visits, I suppose. Come, along. Arthur will not like to see us skulking outside his room, should he come back.”

Eames sighs. He’s already dreading his agreement to bodyguard for some petulant trumped up prostitute. “Arthur sounds particular.”

Mal makes an undignified snort and Eames immediately begins to like her. “Particular does not begin to cover it.”

“Beyond particular doesn’t sound like a good attribute for a prostitute.”

Mal quiets and when Eames turns his attention to her face she is frowning. “I wouldn’t use that term again in this house.”

Eames snorts, but he knows she’s serious. It makes him want to push buttons. “So what do you call them?”

“Companions. But they prefer to be called the kept.”

\---

Eames has always been a man of in betweens. He’s the middle child of three. He constantly shifts between jobs, between lovers, between lives.

When he was eighteen and on his way out of his mother’s house, she told him that if he didn’t start making decisions soon he’d never go anywhere.

Never going anywhere sounds pretty good to Eames.

\---

Eames won’t meet Arthur for another two days. Apparently, Mr. Saito suddenly renews his interest in Arthur and requests him for a weekend away to Kyoto. But just by wandering around the mansion, he meets two of Saito’s “kept.” 

The first morning he wakes and immediately realizes that he doesn’t know where the kitchen is. He spends twenty minutes wandering the ground floor, only to realize there’s another level below it. The basement is equipped with a gym, a few locked doors, and—blessedly—a kitchen.

The kitchen is a modern monstrosity. Barren and swollen with stainless steel and empty counters. Eames is accustomed to tiny, overcrowded kitchens with peeling wall paper. His last flat had what was basically a glorified kitchenette. But he'd loved his cramped spice rack, the pile of dishes near the sink when he ran out of cupboard space, the fridge that groaned and rattled, the oven that leaked heat and made the kitchen smolder.

Eames prefers tiny and overcrowded to enormous and uncomfortable.

He finds a bearded man, sitting on the countertop and smoking a pipe. Judging by his clothing and the blossoming bruise on his neck, Eames would guess he’s one of the kept.

“I have to assume that you are Arthur’s new bodyguard, no?” The bearded man says this on an exhale of smoke and the tobacco smells expensive. Judging by that and this man’s cashmere sweater, Mr. Saito must take care of his kept. At least monetarily.

“Eames,” he greets with a handshake and a buoyant smile. The bearded man returns both. Immediately, Eames knows he has an ally here.

He’s surprised by how grateful he is. 

“Yusef.” Another exhale of smoke. It forms a haze around his head and for a moment the kitchen feels smaller, less intimidating. “How long have you been here, Eames?” 

Yusef tips the pipe to him in offering. Eames shakes his head, but takes out a pack of Pall Mall’s. Four cigarettes left before he has to turn to Japanese brands. He has no idea what Japanese cigarettes taste like or where he's going to get them.

“Just got in last night, actually.” The smell of his cheap cigarettes is so bitter against the richness of Yusef’s. It reminds him of his place. “Have yet to meet either of the men I work for.”

Yusef snorts. “You might never meet Saito. He avoids the help.”

“Seems that Arthur does too.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard about the last bodyguard.”

Eames hasn’t, but he nods. Best to pretend to know more than get caught knowing less. “Yeah, rough blow that.”

Yusef rubs his beard. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Where’s your bodyguard?”

Yusef snorts. “I don’ have one.”

Eames brow knits, “Do any of the others have a body guard?”

Yusef gnaws on the end of his pipe. Nervous tick. Eames files that away. “We have guards in general. At the doors and pacing the halls at night, yes?” He works his jaw. “But Arthur is the only one with a personal body guard. I see that no one told you.”

Eames shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but his brain is working in overtime. Is he sickly? Is he Saito’s favorite? Is there leverage here? Having leverage over a man like Mr. Saito is very, very appealing to Eames. But he needs to tamp down his greed and it's time to change the subject.

“You hungry? I was about to make breakfast. I make a mean breakfast.”

\---

After that, Eames meets two more of the kept (a slight girl named Ariadne and a plump Japanese girl named Hiro that Eames plans to hit on later). But he spends most of the day playing cards with Yusef and letting him share advice about how to live in Saito’s “summer home.”

Through this sort of advice, he gleans a few facts about Arthur’s last body guard: nothing ill befell him and he still works for Mr. Saito; Arthur was intensely fond of him; Yusef is careful to never say his name; and whoever he is and whatever he did, he royally fucked up.

“It’s a shame, actually.” They’re playing checkers now and Yusef is shockingly good at it. “Arthur didn’t like any of his guards before his last one.”

Eames doesn’t say anything, just lets him take another piece. He’s found over time that getting someone to talk while playing a game is easy: you just have to let them win.

“Arthur is going to eat you alive. I feel almost bad for you. You seem like an amiable fellow.” Yusef takes the piece with a smile. “Especially since you’re letting me win.”

Eames laughs and lets him take another piece. “No, you just have pure talent.”

“No one is talented at checkers.” But he doesn’t press the issue. “May I give you some advice on our Arthur?”

Eames notices the tick. Mal called him “our Arthur” too. It might be a communal feeling of fondness, or something else. He files it away.

“Please.”

“He’s not as high maintenance as he likes to let on or others believe. Don’t treat him special or carefully and he’ll like you better.”

Eames nods. “Good to know. He still sounds like a stick in the mud.”

“Well, yes. But what a beautiful stick in such expensive clay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fanfic in a while. Thought I'd write one, in part, to encourage people to vote for Arthur/Eames in the [Backlot Poll](http://www.thebacklot.com/slash-madness-round-1/07/2014/5/).
> 
> I'd also like to clarify that my decision to make Arthur half-Japanese was very thought out. I am also happa and I'm wary of using white actors to represent people of color. I suppose we can take this as an AU where Arthur is half-asian.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing could have prepared Eames for meeting Arthur. He is awoken with a phone call the next day at four am. He’s dragging his clothing on, ready to flee if he has to, as he answers the call.

“Yes?” His face is smushed up against the phone so he lisps over the 's' in a way that he'd usually find embarrassing if he wasn't so rushed.

“Good morning, Eames.” It’s Mal on the other end and he relaxes a bit. “Arthur’s plane will be landing soon and you need to pick him up.”

Mal tells him that a driver will take him to the airport (a small private airport for private jets) and that they need to depart in five minutes. She sounds a little harried and she hangs up without saying goodbye.

Eames is ready to go in two. He and a Japanese driver who doesn’t speak English (Eames is beginning to realize with more and more clarity that barely knowing pigeon Japanese and Chinese isn’t going to cut it here). The driver is a young man with perfect teeth and Eames thinks his name is Takehiko, but he's not sure. When they arrive, Arthur’s plane is just landing.

The maybe-Takehiko-driver repeats something urgently to Eames over and over again until he gets out. As he’s standing from the car, Arthur emerges from the plane.

He knows its Arthur intuitively. Maybe because this man is beautiful and wrapped in some sort of lightweight kimono. Maybe because his eyes sweep the tarmac, land on Eames, and look assessing. Either way, Eames knows without a doubt that this, this is “our Arthur.”

Despite the early hour, Arthur looks alert and composed. His blue yukata is tied up tightly with a thin, golden obi. He looks immaculate. As if carved from marble or unyielding wood.

Eames has no idea how old this person is. He could be nineteen or he could be twenty-nine. He has one of those faces. The thought simultaneously thrills and disturbs him. Saito wouldn't bed a child, would he?

An attendant helps Arthur down the stairs (further evidence for Eames’ sickly theory), but Arthur’s eyes never leave Eames. He’s calculating. Eames shouldn’t find it as fetching as he does.

“You must be my new bodyguard.” He speaks in an American English accent. He’s beautiful. He extends a hand. “Arthur.”

“Eames.” He shakes his hand and holds it for a moment too long, smirking.

Arthur eventually has to draw his hand from Eames’, expression pinched. “Mr. Eames. A pleasure.”

“Eames is fine.”

“Mr. Eames.”

In that moment, Eames realizes that Mr. Saito is nowhere around. He has expected to see him here, but it seems they’ve taken separate planes. Fascinating.

“Eames.” Eames grins and gestures to the car. “Shall we?”

He extends a hand to Arthur. To Eames’ surprise, he takes it. Arthur’s hand is dry and warm in his. Eames had expected it to be as smooth and manicured as Yusef’s was. Though Arthur’s nails are clean, his palm is edged in calluses. 

Eames helps Arthur into the car and again he’s surprised when Arthur allows it. Everything about him suggests that he’s a man that likes to do things for himself, yet he allows himself to be guided. By the attendant, by Eames.

The driver and Arthur are speaking in Japanese, a low monotonous language. Eames can't discern any tone or emotion in their conversation. Arthur’s expression has barely changed from leaving the plane, but Eames is trying not to watch him openly.

“Do you speak Japanese?” Arthur asks suddenly, breaking off from his conversation with the driver.

“Only enough to say that I don’t speak Japanese.”

Arthur smiles thinly and then dips back into his conversation with the driver. Eames hears his own name once, but it sounds more like listing than any form of gossip. Mr. Saito’s name bobs in and out of the conversation. 

“Mind keeping me into the loop, darling?”

Arthur scowls and the driver asks something. Eames suspects it’s a request for a translation. Arthur seems to give it to him because the driver looks at Eames in the mirror. His eyes are wide with warning.

“Don’t call me darling.” Arthur’s tone is even and calm. 

It makes Eames want to unravel him in the worst kind of way.

When they arrive back at the house, Arthur announces that he needs a shower and that Eames can wait outside his door until he’s finished.

“Sure you don’t want company in the shower?”

Arthur gives him a blank look.

“Stay outside, Mr. Eames.”

\---

When Arthur finishes showering, he opens the door for Eames. Just opens it. Wordless and simple, assuming Eames will just walk in. Which he does.

Arthur is now dressed in Western clothing: dark khaki slacks, button up, sweater. Eames wonders how he isn’t roasting under all those layers.

“Have a seat, Mr. Eames. Tea?” Arthur is standing before a teacart, back to Eames.

“Yes, thank you. Cream and sugar.”

Arthur makes a sound in the back of his throat. “All I have is green tea.”

“Ah.” Eames looks around the room. It’s minimalistic to the point of uneasiness. Like the rest of the house, the walls in Arthur's room are white. Arthur’s furniture is black. Sleek and modern in a way that grates on Eames. He has three chairs circling a small table. A leather couch. A tea station. A bed behind a rice paper partition. And a desk. It’s a big room, but the lack of decoration or ornamentation makes it seem hollow.

Eames is reminded of the kitchen just two floors below.

The only color he can spot is a vase of yellow roses. There’s a card, but it’s in Japanese and Eames can’t read it. Regardless, he suspects they’re from Saito. “Is your room always this neat?”

Arthur looks over his shoulder, but doesn’t look at Eames. As if acknowledging he’s spoken, but uninterested in actually acknowledging him.

Straight-backed, he delivers a cup of tea with no handle to Eames. “More or less.”

“Not one for decoration, are you?”

Arthur sucks his teeth at him and takes a seat in one of his slim leather chairs. Eames is beginning to realize that Arthur can make anything seem like a throne. “Let’s set some rules, shall we?”

“Right to the point, I like it.”

“I wake up every morning at eight, but I won’t need you until nine. On the days that Mr. Saito is visiting me, I’ll leave a vase of flowers by the door. You may wait outside my door until he leaves, but you may not knock or come in.

“I’d prefer it if you did not try to make small talk with me. I’ll admit I’m not very good at it. I’d suggest you invest in some books because most of your day will consist of waiting for me or simply sitting quiet.” Arthur pauses. “It will be boring and I apologize. You're welcome to befriend the other kept and invite them over, if you like. But not the guards.”

Arthur stands suddenly, striding over to his dresser. He pulls out a drawer and when he turns, he’s holding a Beretta U22 Neos. The compact pistol looks tiny in Arthur’s long fingers.

Eames can’t help but feel a little impressed. Not just because Beretta is his preferred line. From his knowledge, Japan’s gun laws are incredibly strict and hard to get around. Eames himself only managed to smuggle a dissembled Pico in. But here Arthur is, holding a full sized Beretta.

“This is yours.”

He reaches out for it, but Arthur holds it just out of his grasp.

“Mr. Saito does not know that I’m giving this to you. If you tell him, I’ll see to it that you’re removed.”

“Is that what happened to your last bodyguard?”

It’s the wrong thing to say and Eames realizes it immediately. Arthur closes down. “You won’t ask questions about me. You won’t ask questions about Mr. Saito. You won’t ask questions about my previous bodyguards. Do you understand?”

Eames doesn’t answer right away and Arthur lifts the gun and turns off the safety. His finger isn’t on the trigger however, which only makes Eames respect him more. 

He can’t help but wonder why this man needs a bodyguard.

“I understand.”

Arthur nods and puts back on the safety. 

\---

Life with Arthur isn’t as uncomfortable as Eames might have expected. Most days Arthur just sits at his desk with a laptop (shockingly, the laptop has a bright red casing) and types away at it for hours.

Eames has no idea what he’s doing, but when he tries to catch a glimpse, Arthur squirrels it all away.

He was absolutely wrong about one thing though and that’s Arthur’s room.

Arthur clearly doesn’t need decoration because Saito provides it for him. Every day, a new bouquet of flowers arrives. Not always roses, but daisies and lilacs and irises and lilies. All fresh cut, usually long stem and fragrant. No less than a dozen. 

Eames has been here two weeks before he finally asks about them. Or, well, mentions them.

“You must be really good at what you do to deserve all these.” Eames says it idly, sitting on Arthur’s couch while watching him sort through his vase of wilting tulips.

Arthur doesn’t even look up. “I’m better than really good.”

It takes Eames a moment to realize that Arthur is smiling and he just made a joke. He immediately wants more.

“I’m sure you are.” He leans forward in his chair. “With those lovely long legs of yours.”

Arthur just hums. He’s in a good mood. Mr. Saito just delivered some peonies and they're fighting for fragrant dominance over Tuesday's lilacs. Eames can smell the cigarette smoke on himself and instead of feeling self-conscious, he likes the contrast. The rich, chemical mix of tobacco sliding just under the sweetness of the flora.

The silence stretches out between them and, fidgety, Eames is about to make an inappropriate comment. But Arthur speaks first.

“Which part of England are you from, Mr. Eames?”

Eames is taken aback. “Surrey,” he lies automatically. 

Arthur hums again. “I’ve never been to England. Do you miss it?”

“So I’m not allowed to ask about you, but you’re allowed to pry into my life?” He says it lightly, as a joke, but the minute it’s out he realizes it sounds too harsh. That he’s shut down yet another conversation.

Except he hasn’t. Arthur just laughs. “Exactly.”

Now Eames is wondering if everyone had given him the wrong impression of Arthur. He opens his mouth to say something in retort, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Saito will be seeing me this evening, so you may leave early, if you like.”

Eames nods. “Been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Arthur just shrugs. “Have a good night, Mr. Eames.”

\---

Just sitting in his room with nothing to do is agony. Arthur has leant him a few books that he insists are mandatory reading, but he finds all of them boring and strange.

A few paragraphs into Murakami's Norwegian Wood and Eames simply gives up. Perhaps Yusef is around and he can be goaded into another round of checkers.

Eames is about to get up when he hears it: a persistent thumping sound. Too late, he realizes that his room shares the same wall as Arthur’s bed. And that thumping sound is decidedly Arthur’s headboard hitting Eames’ wall.

He groans and looks around for his house slippers. Like hell he’s going to sit around here and listen to their rutting.

But he’s got both his shoes on and he’s heading for the door when he hears a long, nearly strangled moan.

It sounds in pain and Eames freezes. At first he pitied the poor bodyguard before him that had to hear this every night. Now he realizes it’s an asset. Being able to hear everything means just that: being able to hear everything. If Arthur is being attacked, if he's in danger, if he needs help.

He pulls the Beretta from under his mattress, ready to charge into Arthur’s room when he hears it.

“More.”

The sound is breathy and low, barely a whisper and Eames can’t tell if it’s Mr. Saito or Arthur. The bed in their room slams against the wall so hard that Eames’ bed frame rattles. 

The next moan is louder, more pronounced, and definitely Arthur. He sounds more vulnerable than Eames expected. When he begs, “Please, please…” it sounds almost soft. Sweet.

“Saito, I want…yes, there, please…”

It must be exaggerated. Eames is certain of this. Arthur feeding Saito what he wants to hear.

“Please, please, feels…”

Eames wouldn’t mind hearing it either. Wouldn’t mind slamming into that hot, tight body. Making Arthur sigh those words. Growling in his ear. Eames’ fingers skim his own waistband. Considering. What it would feel like to brush his fingers over Arthur's fit abdomen. To hitch a leg over his shoulder. To grind into him and make him take it. To bend Arthur over his desk, knocking over a vase of flowers and rutting right through it. Make him beg. Make him soil those clothes and scream Eames' name.

Arthur screams. Flat out screams. Mr. Saito remains quiet and it seems to all be over.

Of course. 

Eames grunts in frustration and draws his hand away. He lets out another groan of frustration when they begin murmuring to each other. Mr. Saito seems to be praising Arthur in a flat monotone. Arthur grunts in reply. Eames can't make out any words.

Eames leans up against the wall and could hit himself for thinking about masturbating to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Eames must have fallen asleep because when he wakes, there’s sun in the window and he can hear Saito speaking. It’s too muffled to understand and Eames assumes it's because Saito is across the room, redressing as he speaks to Arthur.

Figuring he might as well get the day started, Eames drags a hand through his hair and steps outside. No need to change his clothes from yesterday, Arthur will hate them either way.

The timing couldn’t have been better.

Mr. Saito is standing outside Arthur’s door. There's a vase of yellow daffodils at his feet. Arthur is wearing a silk robe that is open to about his navel. 

Arthur immediately snaps his attention to Eames. For a moment, shame and rage flick over his face, but they quickly dissolve into mild panic. Like he does not know what to do. It's a new look on Arthur and Eames plans to savor it.

Jaw tight, Arthur looks to Mr. Saito and then back to Eames. Clearly telling him to fuck off and leave.

Eames just smirks.

Mr. Saito follows Arthur’s gaze. He’s taller than Arthur, but not by much and even the few inches he has could just be his presence. The man is immaculate and commanding. Older than Eames had imagined with gray peppering his hair. He's handsome and oozes affluence and power. The kind of man Eames would attempt to sidle up to in a gambling den.

He gives Eames a polite smile.

“You must be our Arthur’s new bodyguard.” Mr. Saito gives Arthur a look, still smiling politely. “Thank you for your time, Arthur. I will see you next Tuesday, if that works with your schedule.”

“That will be fine.” Arthur looks back to Eames. “I’ll speak with him about…”

The formality of this encounter is striking to Eames. As if Arthur wasn’t just begging under this man.

Mr. Saito shakes his head and makes a dismissive gesture. Waving Arthur away like a bee landing on one of his flowers. “This was fine, Arthur. Have a good day.”

He gives Eames another polite nod and leaves.

Eames is just musing over the last time he left a beautiful boy’s flat when his arm is seized and he’s dragged into the room.

“Did Mal not tell you the rules, Mr. Eames?” Arthur is pressed up close against him and hissing.

Eames moves to close the door, but before he can, it’s slammed shut. It takes him a moment to realize Arthur’s palm is pressed against it. That Arthur closed the door before Eames could even feel him move. It startles him in a way he can't quite identify, shakes him up and turns him over and leaves him wrong footed.

“Well?”

“She did.”

“Did she not tell you to stay out of Saito’s sight?”

“Well, in not so many words…” 

Eames half expects Arthur is going to hit him. But instead he sighs and leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s mussed and curling slightly. He must slick a fair amount of pomade into it to keep it so tame. Like this, Arthur looks undone. Eames can’t decide if immaculate Arthur or disheveled Arthur is more appealing.

“Please try not to do it again.”

Both, he decides. Definitely both.

\---

Eames has been watching Arthur for too long and he knows it. Were Arthur a target, he would never watch him this openly and for this long. Especially since Eames knows that Arthur knows he’s being watched.

An unwatched Arthur lets his back bow. He shoves a hand through his hair and rolls up his sleeves. Unwatched Arthur fidgets. 

Arthur watched sits perfectly straight-backed and still. He reads a book and doesn’t tip his chair back like Eames knows is more comfortable for him.

And this is where it gets interesting. When Arthur knows he’s being watched by Saito, he continues on as normal. He reads his book at a breakneck speed. His back bends a little. His legs splay. He coyly rubs the seam of his trousers with his thumb, almost absent minded.

Now, Arthur hasn’t flipped a page for three minutes. And his fingers are pressed tense around the page. Not at all like he is when Saito observes him. 

Eames leans back in his chair and smacks his gum. “Interesting.”

Arthur looks up immediately and Eames can tell it is quicker than he meant to. His eyes narrow a moment after they meet Eames’. Affected annoyance. Eames smirks.

“What is, Mr. Eames?” He sounds so level and tightly bound. Eames is reminded of the first time he saw him. In that summer _yukata_ with the pale blue _obi_. He wanted then and still wants now to pull that obi loose. Unwrap him.

“Nothing, Arthur. “ Eames rolls his gum in his mouth. He’s about to comment on the book Arthur is barely reading when the doors open.

Araidne enters, carrying one of her drafting pads. Arthur stands to greet her with a tight, but fond, smile.

“Saito would like you to meet him in your bedroom at eight tonight. Is that alright?” Ariadne has a way of sounding concerned about everything. It sets Eames on edge, but Arthur doesn’t seem phased.

In fact, Arthur’s expression is stunningly neutral. “Of course. Thank you, Ariadne. Would you like to stay for tea?”

Ariadne hesitates and looks between them before taking a seat next to Arthur. "I'd like that. I can't stay long, but..."

Eames hasn't spent much time with Ariadne. He's spent many days with Yusef (long afternoons with a game of cards and tobacco) but Ariadne has always skirted his attention. She seems lovely enough. He shoots her a wink which usually leaves women flushing and grinning.

Instead, Ariadne lifts an unamused eyebrow and turns to Arthur. "I actually had something to ask you about, Arthur."

Eames can see why the two get on.

"Anything Eames can't hear?'

She looks to Eames, expression queasy around the corners of her mouth, then back to Arthur. "I suppose not. I mostly wanted to ask what you do when your thighs start cramping. With Saito, I mean."

Arthur nods calmly. Eames isn't necessarily off put by the conversation, but he's a little unsettled by Arthur's cool response. As if they're discussing the flowers on his windowsill.

"Well, you shouldn't be cramping. Are you talking about when you're on top?"

Ariadne is resolutely not looking to Eames, as if trying to prove that she can be as unflappable as Arthur. "Yes."

"Then try putting more weight on your arms. He likes it if you put your hands on his chest. You're so light you can afford to lean forward a little."

This goes on for a while and Eames fades out of the conversation. He's only jarred back into it when Ariadne says his name.

"Eames? Mr. Eames? Did you hear me?'"

"Yes, what?"

"How are you liking it here? Settling in alright?"

Arthur isn't looking at him. His attention is on a vase of stargazer lilies, but Eames suspects he's still listening raptly. Arthur wouldn't pass up an opportunity to learn about someone.

Eames shrugs. "I like the hot weather, but I miss English cigarettes."

Ariadne laughs and it's a nice sound, but Eames is more interested in the slight quirk of Arthur's mouth.

The conversation swings back to Saito and the proper way to please him. Eames doesn't learn much from the conversation, other than Arthur clearly doesn't like to discuss his own relationship with Saito. With every question that Ariadne asks, Arthur masterfully turns the focus away from what he prefers to do, what he does, to what Ariadne could do and what would be best for her.

It's subtle and Eames isn't quite sure that Ariadne notices. He's not sure himself what it means.

\---

Eventually, Ariadne has to go get ready for Mr. Saito. And as Eames watches Ariadne leave, he can't tamp down his initial disgust at the way Ariadne _scheduled_ a meeting with Mr. Saito. 

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“We have been over the name issue, Mr. Eames.” 

“I don’t mean the names, Arthur.”

Arthur is on his way back to his chair, from seeing Ariadne out, but Eames catches his wrist. In a matter of moments, Eames’ arm is pinned behind his back and they’ve knocked over the chair. “Don’t touch me.”

Eames groans. “It doesn’t bother you that he’s, ah! That he treats you like a business partner? That you can talk with Ariadne like that?”

Arthur drops his wrist and steps back. When Eames turns around, he looks so calm that Eames hardly believed he’d ever been restrained.

“No. But if it did, it wouldn’t be your business. You’re excused for the night.”

“You can’t do—“

“I can take care of myself. Go back to your quarters.” Arthur waits a beat and then snaps. “Now. Eames.”

Eames goes, stepping backwards until he hits the door. But when he turns, his expression deepens into a frown. 

He spends all night in his slim twin-sized bed, thinking about Arthur and Saito. What they must be like together in bed. Does Arthur moan for Saito? Does Saito demand he lie on his stomach? rise to his knees? 

Wrap his legs around his waist and throw his head back?

Eames would like Arthur best that way.

He’d be so lovely spread out for Eames. He can imagine him flushed, trying to maintain his cool expression to keep the upper hand. Jaw tense, thighs tense, fingers digging into his biceps.

“Just do it, Eames.” His name soft on his lips. Eames? Mr. Eames?

Eames is tempted to slip his hand beneath his boxers, but his palm stills at his stomach. He’s complicating things for himself. All for a mild attraction to a man owned by a business tycoon. Playing with Arthur means playing with an empire. 

Eames tells himself that when he gambles, he does it for higher stakes. But even when he rolls to his side to sleep, he’s still obsessing over Arthur. Eames? Mr. Eames?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn't mean to post this chapter already, but enjoy two chapters in one night! Thank you so much for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Eames arrives a few minutes late, but Arthur doesn’t say anything. Arthur’s dressed a little more casually than usual (Eames wasn’t entirely convinced that Arthur owned jeans) and he’s sprawled sideways over his leather chair, one leg slung over the arm.

The sun has been behind the clouds all day and Arthur's room is cast in a dark gray. A few of his flowers have started to brown around the edges, but Arthur hasn't tended to them yet. Eames suspects he's going to be lazy today. His laptop isn't even out and the mysterious files on his desk seem untouched.

He doesn’t mention their spat yesterday. In fact, he doesn’t act like they’ve argued at all. So casual that it puts Eames on edge.

“Pour yourself a cup of tea if you like. It’s still warm.”

As Eames’ anxiety settles in, so does his strained sense of humor. Eames laughs falsely and crosses the room to the tea set. “The way you drink tea, I’d almost think you were English, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling,” he corrects, but it’s absent and lacks bite. “And the Japanese enjoy tea just as much, Mr. Eames.”

“Ah, right.” Eames returns to his usual seat with a cup of steaming genmai-cha in hand. He still isn’t sure the difference between the different _cha_ s but Arthur swears by them. Eames picks up his Murakami, but has no intention of reading it. “I forget that you’re mixed.”

“Happa,” Arthur agrees.

Arthur must be feeling guilty, or at least taxed from their argument. Either way, Eames senses an opening and decides to take it. Opportunistic bastard that he is. He tells himself he’s gaining leverage.

“Mother’s side or father’s? Or a little bit of both?”

“Father’s.” Arthur picks up his book, but like Eames, he doesn’t open it. “My mother is caucasian.”

“Ah, your mum caught a bit of the yellow fever did she?”

Arthur doesn’t even look up. “I find that language offensive." His tone is even, but sharp. "They fell in love. His race has nothing to do with it.”

Eames isn’t startled by being called out, but he is by Arthur’s sudden romanticism. “Fell in love? I’d taken you as a cynic when it comes to all things hearts and kisses.”

“Because I’m a prostitute.” Arthur doesn’t phrase it like a question, but there is a hint of challenge there.

“Because you’re you, Arthur. Tell me, have you always been an emotionless robot or—”

Arthur opens his book. “Too many questions, Eames. You’ll have to give me something in exchange for that sort of information.”

Eames stifles a laugh. “Alright, alright, what do you want to know?”

“Did you have a happy childhood?” Arthur shoots back before Eames can even finish his breath.

Going for the throat as usual. Eames is starting to lose his surprise over Arthur’s curtness, his ability to hone in on vulnerabilities.

Now, of course, he has a dilemma. Answer truthfully or lie and risk Arthur catching it. If Arthur catches him lying, the conversation will shut down and Eames won’t get anything from him. Honestly, Eames can’t think of a good reason to lie. And these sort of emotional gray areas can be hard to fabricate. So he goes for it.

“More or less. I felt like a constant disappointment, even when I was young, but my mother held me enough and my father never hit me. If that’s what you’re after.” Eames feels uncomfortable so he reaches for his cigarettes, only to remember he killed his last pack yesterday.

Arthur watches the gesture, but doesn’t say anything.

“What about you?”

Arthur shrugs. “About the same. But having interracial parents in the conservative midwest was difficult. Midwest of the states, of course” He rolls his neck and flips a page in his book. The clouds shift outside and give them a brief flash of sun, but it quickly fades back into gray. “I was closer to my mom than my father. I think in an attempt to be white. But I grew apart from her as a teenager, as everyone does.”

Arthur looks up, straight into Eames’ eyes and he feels like Arthur knows everything about him, everything about his past. How Eames ran away from home at sixteen. How he fought his mother tooth and nail over everything. How hard those first few years alone were and how he missed his mother every day, but was too proud to go back. He grits his teeth.

“Next question, how old are you?”

Arthur, for once, looks surprised. “I’m twenty-four.” Thank god for small favors; he wasn’t underage. “I thought you knew.” His eyes narrow. “Just how much about this job were you told?”

“Very little. A friend of a friend knows the head of Mr. Saito’s security and got me a job within a few days of its posting. I was on my way to the airport as he was describing it to me. How did you think I got here so fast?” Eames doesn’t know why he’s telling the truth like this. It could be dangerous. And yet he lets his mouth run on.

“I assumed you knew Mr. Saito himself. That explains why you don’t know any Japanese.” Arthur shrugs and leans back again, clearly satisfied. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” Eames lies just to right his balance. It’s only by two years, but it still makes him feel better.

Arthur nods. “And have you—“

“Ah, ah, ah,” Eames chastises. “I get to ask a question now. Why did you start working for Mr. S—“

“Did you know the average Japanese penis size is larger than the average American size?” Arthur says abruptly. “By several centimeters, actually.”

Eames bursts out laughing and Arthur pretends to not know what he finds so funny. 

The rest of the afternoon Arthur tells Eames about national phallus lengths and strange animal mating habits. It’s as if he’s reading an encyclopedia of perverse knowledge aloud. Eames hasn’t laughed so hard in a long time. Arthur is laughing too and everything feels bright even if it's gray outside.

—

Things go on like this for a few weeks with little variation. Eames eventually finishes Murakami and moves onto a book that Yusef suggests for him (it's about a geisha and Eames likes it significantly more than the Murakami).

Arthur continues to type mysterious notes to himself on his laptop. He seems to be more distressed than he was before because he works on it all day with little rest. The stack of files piles up. So do the flowers from Mr. Saito. 

Eames watches him more than he should. He can’t help himself.

Eventually Arthur is called away to accompany Saito on some business trip and Eames is told to stay behind. He fights with Arthur over it even when he knows it isn’t Arthur’s fault.

“Aren’t I supposed to be guarding you? What’s the point of leaving me behind?” He's spitting mad, but he manages to wrangle his tone into wry condescension.

“Saito has his own guards that he prefers to use.” Arthur is packing a leather duffle. Eames watches as he folds his boxer briefs, including a black silk pair. Arthur has already locked all those files away and even if Eames picklocks his cabinets, he doubts he'll find them. Knowing Arthur, he's probably taking his work with him

He feels a little sick and can’t pinpoint why.

So he takes it out on Arthur. “This is ridiculous. You're being ridiculous. I’m supposed to be you’re security detail. What? What is it? You think I'll get in the way of all your humping?”

Arthur's jaw twitches. “You’re getting a week off, Mr. Eames. Paid leave. I don’t understand why you’re complaining.”

Because he doesn’t want him to go. Because he doesn’t like the idea of Arthur going off alone with Saito.

But Arthur zips up his bag and apparently that’s that.

—

Eames ends up spending most of the week with Yusef and Ariadne, who apparently spend a lot of their spare time together. They've got a quiet, tender friendship that Eames envies a little. They show him the rose garden in the back (which is beautiful, but Eames is starting to grow tired of beautiful flowers and he much prefers the zen garden adjacent to it). Ariadne teaches him the different types of columns and roofs possible.

He’s not bored and he doesn’t miss Arthur, but he still turns to him for comment or to make a snide remark without quite thinking about it. Each time Arthur isn't there, he's frustrated with himself.

It’s been three days after Arthur left. He’s trying to teach Ariadne how to knit, but she keeps getting frustrated and tangling the yarn.

“So,” Yusef says. “How are things going with our Arthur?”

They’re sitting in Yusef’s room. It is so different from Arthur’s that Eames wonders if Mr. Saito gets whiplash between the two. Yusef’s floor is covered in plush and colorful runs. His walls are lined with shelves that hold everything from books to vials full of liquids Eames is instructed not to touch. It reminds Eames of chaotic Mombasa and he’s tempted to ask if Yusef has been. But, of course he doesn’t ask.

Eames shrugs and leans over to correct Ariadne’s hold on the needles. She always tries to hold them like pencils. “Fine.”

“I’d say you’re doing more than fine, friend.” 

Ariadne snickers and Eames shoots her a glare. “Something to share with the class, love?”

She shakes her head and pulls the yarn through. “Nothing. You two just seem to be getting on well.”

“What makes you say that?”

Yusef is smirking in Eames' periphery. The two of them are intolerable together.

“He smiles at things you say and you’re always watching him.”

“I’m his bodyguard. I’m supposed to watch him.” 

Ariadne shrugs. “I’m just calling it as it is. Also, I think I dropped a stitch a few rows ago. What do I do?”

Eames sighs and helps her fix it, but even as he’s explaining how to pick up a stitch, he’s thinking about Arthur. Does he smile at what Eames says? He supposes Arthur does. Flashes those lovely dimples, eyes narrow with mirth.

The thought almost makes him smile, but he keeps it down.

—

On the fourth day, Eames snoops through Arthur's room out of boredom. As suspected, Arthur hasn't left his laptop or his numerous files.

The search proves largely disappointing. He finds a few letters written in Japanese under Arthur's mattress (presumably from Mr. Saito). They're well thumbed over, the creases and edges browning from hand oil and folding. In Arthur's bedside drawer there's an assortment of lubes and toys (including a set of handcuffs that Eames spends too long staring at). In the second drawer, Arthur has a collection of brightly colored Japanese candies. Hi-Chew, Botan, and Pocky. 

Despite himself, Eames is smiling and shaking his head as he closes the drawer. It's cute and fits in with Arthur's dimples and light laugh. It's nice to find fitting puzzle pieces like this.

Eames then flips through the books on Arthur's shelf, hoping to find a secret note or a photograph. He doesn't find a note, but he does find a single pressed flower (an orchid and Eames tries not to fit that with Mr. Saito). Eames also finds a photograph.

It's of a group of three: a white woman with short hair and a soft smile, pressed against an Asian man whose attention is more on the boy standing between them than the camera.

Of course the boy in the middle is Arthur and this is a picture of him with his family. He's looking up to his father and he's got a round, sweet face. He's holding hands with both of them. He can't be more than eight in this picture.

Eames slides it away immediately. He's broken into dozens of homes. Stolen priceless family heirlooms. Watched couples sleeping as he stole their wedding rings from their dressers. And yet, he can't shake the feeling that he's violated an enormous taboo.

He slips the photograph back in the book where he found it (a textbook on Freud) and goes back to his room where he'll stay the rest of the night.

—

Arthur returns mid-afternoon that Sunday. The sun is streaming in through his window hot and bright and he leaves his door open so Eames sees him unpacking when he passes on his way to Yusef’s quarters.

Of course, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Arthur, darling, you’re home early.”

Arthur looks up and his eyes are smudged with dark circles. He hasn’t been sleeping well and when he turns to look at Eames, he moves stiffly. He's holding a stack of files which he sets back into his duffle immediately.

Then Arthur smiles and he’s feigning exasperation, but his dimples are there and it’s the best thing Eames has seen all week including the tin of tobacco Yusef gave him in lieu of the cigarettes he’s been craving.

So of course Eames has to go and ruin it.

“Standing a little bow-legged, I see. Mr. Saito must have really reamed you.”

But Arthur just smiles good-naturedly and continues to unpack. “Did you have a nice time with Ariadne and Yusef?”

Eames doesn’t even bother to ask how he knows. “Yes. Did you have a nice time with Mr. Saito?”

Arthur hums. “I didn’t see him much, actually. Just at night.” He looks up and locks eyes with Eames.

It takes Eames a moment to realize he’s challenging him and he can’t make heads or tails of it. So he decides not to bother with it at all.

“I promised Yusef I’d meet him for cards today. Do you mind if I kip off early?”

Arthur lowers his eyes before he can read his expression, turning to put away his clothing. “No, not at all. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Eames.”

Eames leaves, but he’s unsettled by that hint of challenge. By Arthur’s stiffness around the hips.

Something is about to come to a head and he feels equal parts anticipation and unease. It’s a new sensation for him.

—

When Eames wakes up the next morning, there’s a pack of cigarettes on his bedside table. Pall Malls. He didn’t even hear Arthur sneak in. He’s a little unsettled, but he lights one up anyway. 

When he goes to Arthur, neither of them mention the cigarettes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumping up the rating to explicit for this chapter. Oh boy.

Through the wall, Eames can hear Arthur crying. It takes him a few minutes to recognize the sound, but once he does it’s unmistakable.

A dry wrenching sound, like a cough or a choke. As if it’s being wrung from Arthur and each gasp pains him.

It’s two in the morning and Mr. Saito must have left already. Sometimes he does that. Two times out of five, he’ll leave before morning. Eames isn’t sure why. He never hears the conversation before Mr. Saito leaves. Does Arthur ask him to leave? Does he beg Mr. Saito to stay?

Every three or four sobs, the sound will dip out. Eames thinks Arthur is holding his breath because when the sobbing returns it’s louder and more forceful. 

After ten minutes of this, Eames decides enough is enough.

There’s still a vase of flowers next to the door (forget-me-nots) but Eames knows that Saito has long left. He barrels through the door (unlocked, Mr. Saito doesn’t even lock the door after himself) and Arthur jerks up into sitting.

In the dark, Eames can barely make out the contours of Arthur’s face. His eyes are dark, owlish pits and he can’t see the tear tracks he’s sure are there. Eames might have thought himself imagining things, but he can see the subtle shudder of Arthur’s shoulders. The attempt to suppress crying.

“Get out of my room, Mr. Eames.” His voice is scraped raw. But his tone is even; he doesn’t sound like a man bringing himself from tears.

“No, I don’t think so.” Eames shoulders his way into Arthur’s bed.

Arthur is resistant, but doesn’t shove him out. He even lets himself be arranged a few inches over so Eames can get under the covers. It’s a soft bed with a pillowy duvet and fine sheets. Exactly what Eames expected.

“He’s a tosser.” Eames says after a few long moments of silence.

Arthur turns his head and those dark pits are staring at him. Eames feels a rush of fear followed by a heady wave of admiration. Even shivering from sobbing, even smelling of sex, naked and vulnerable in bed, Arthur is terrifying.

“Saito?” Arthur laughs softly. “Please.”

“You’re not crying over him?” Somewhere in the back of his head, Eames feels pure intrigue. Arthur’s dismissal. That rough laugh grinding against Eames’ ears. 

But Arthur doesn’t reply, only lies back and tugs the covers up. “Are you sleeping in here tonight, then?”

Eames shrugs and shifts down beside him. “Might as well. Don’t know when you’re going to go off again, do we, darling?”

He meant it to sound as condescending as humanly possible, but the last minute darling skews the whole sentence toward flirtation. Even in the dark, he can feel Arthur considering him.

“Do you flirt with me because you’re genuinely attracted, because you think it’s funny, or because you know you can’t have me?”

Eames wants to shrug it off like Arthur shrugs off all his questions. But his jaw locks up and he can feel Arthur’s warm shoulder barely skimming his. He knows that if he spreads out his hand, his thumb will brush Arthur’s thigh. He can feel Arthur breathe next to him. The rise of his chest lifting the blankets. And the fall settling them again.

“Probably some combination of attraction and the last one, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Arthur repeats. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than ‘suppose’ if you plan on getting anywhere tonight.”

Eames feels his heart slam against his chest. “Who said anything about getting anywhere, darling?” But there’s that filthy insinuation against the ‘darling’ again and…

And Arthur laughs. It’s a great sound, a real sound. None of that usual, dry rasp that he passes off as sardonic humor. No, Eames has made him laugh. And making Arthur laugh makes him feel more powerful than it should.

It makes him roll onto his elbow and press a hand to Arthur’s shoulder and lean down and…

They’re breathing together. Eames breathes out and Arthur breathes it in and then it rolls back. He can see Arthur’s eyes now. Tracking his. Wide and deep in the dark.

“I’d be terrible for you.” And Eames could kick himself for saying it because he’s so close. He’s wanted Arthur for bloody _months_ and now he’s trying to talk him out of it?

But Arthur constantly surprises him.

“Please. No worse than I’ll be for you.” And he surges up and seals their mouths together.

It’s too hard. Arthur went too fast and their teeth grind together through their lips, but he softens immediately and it’s good. It’s really good. Arthur’s lips are soft and dry against Eames’ chapped lips. His nose is brushing his cheek. Eames just wants to touch him forever. 

The swell of his hips after the slight tuck of his waist. The hard knot of his bicep and bony shoulder ridge. His palms feel hungry and ignite where they meet Arthur’s skin. 

Arthur is bare all over and Eames thrills at being clothed against him. It won’t be for long the way Arthur tugs at his shirt and trousers. As if desperate. Eames isn’t faring much better. Can’t stop touching, tasting, _taking_.

He sinks a hand into his hair and pulls to mouth along his neck. Arthur makes a sound that drives Eames hips forward and they both moan in tandem. It’s like dancing or, even better, fighting. Meeting each move, bodies colliding. 

“Arthur,” Eames growls. He grips Arthur’s hips hard and pulls him flush.

“Pants off.” Arthur says. His voice is even, but rushed and the words slur together. He’s got his thumbs tucked into his pajama bottoms and he’s already shoving them down by the time Eames can even lift his hips off his.

“Do you…” Eames gasps when Arthur nips his earlobe. “Wanna talk about it?” 

Eames is a bad man, but he at least likes to believe he’s not bad enough to take sexual advantage of someone. Even as he’s kicking his trousers from his ankles.

“No,” Arthur replies and flips them over, straddling Eames hips. Eames is broad, even at his hips, and it sets Arthur’s legs wide. Forcing him to pitch forward a little. It’s more hot than it should be. Everything about Arthur is more hot than he should be.

And that seems to be that because he’s grinding down against Eames and _Christ_ he’s still wet from Saito. Slick and hot and tight inside. But that doesn’t stop Eames from flexing his hips up and sinking right into all that tight heat. And Arthur throws his head back and _moans_.

Eames can’t help but smooth a palm over his hip and grasp at his backside, the other hand reaching up to haul him into another kiss. Arthur’s fully seated on him and he slowly begins to roll his hips. Grind into Eames.

Arthur has his hands on Eames’ chest and Eames has his eyes clenched shut until Arthur flexes around him and when Eames opens his eyes, Arthur is staring right at him. He’s rolling his hips, still slow as you please, but his eyes are wide and focused entirely on Eames.

It’s the hottest thing Eames has ever seen and he seizes Arthur’s hips too hard, not caring if he leaves bruises, and forces him deeper. Arthur, he just takes it. Let’s himself go pliant until he's fully seated. And then, then Arthur _speeds up the pace_ until he’s practically bouncing. God bless him.

Eames is close with Arthur drags his blunt nails down his chest. Every now and then he'll tense around Eames in a way that makes Eames see static. 

And Eames is holding Arthur's hips so hard he knows he's bruising him and he's grunting the dirtiest filth to him. "You like it deep, don't you?"

Arthur nods and slams down harder as if to show him. Eames grinds up into him again and Arthur lets out an ungodly sound.

"I like that. Let me hear it again, darling."

Arthur slaps his chest. Hard enough to sting and it only makes Eames rut harder into him. Other than moans, Arthur seems to go quiet during sex. Wordless and debauched under Eames' touch. He _loves_ it.

"Come on, love. Come on, Arthur. At least come for me. Come for me, _darling_."

And of course, Arthur does. Unravels beautifully. Groaning and arching, tensing tightly around Eames.

And when Eames comes, Arthur still has his eyes on him. Dark and wide and hot. Then Arthur’s folding onto Eames’ chest, panting for breath.

They’re quiet for a moment, just breathing together and Eames is starting to drift into sleep when Arthur hisses, “Fuck.”

And Eames takes that as a signal to leave. He gathers up his clothes and just goes. He manages to look back once before closing the door. Arthur is curled on his side, back to the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames arrives in the morning with breakfast and Arthur eats without speaking.

But his posture is relaxed-elbows loose, shoulders sloping, face calm. He makes eye contact with Eames, smiles softly when he’s poured coffee, passes Eames the sugar without being asked. They’ve had breakfast like this before.

Except now Eames knows how Arthur moans and grips at Eames’ chest. He knows how tight he is when he comes and how he shudders and grasps for Eames like the last solid surface in the universe. Most of all, Eames now knows those eyes. Even if he were to leave tomorrow and never see Arthur again, he will be remembering his eyes for the rest of his life.

Today, Arthur is dressed nicely. He’s wearing a dove gray suit (but no tie) and Eames can’t help but wonder if he’s expecting company.

Eames leans back in his chair, sprawling out in a way that usually makes Arthur's jaw spasm. “Mr. Saito paying us a visit today, hm?” Eames is a very, very bad man.

Arthur’s attention snaps up and for a moment his face opens up to its own youth-expressive and unsure. His brow forms a crease, his lips part. He’s only twenty-four, Eames remembers. He’s young and vulnerable in a way that Eames isn't any more. Or shouldn't be.

Arthur's eyes hurt to look at and his mouth is drawn down into a confused frown. Eames wants to pull him close and apologize.

But then Arthur pats his mouth with his napkin and shrugs. The expression is gone as if imagined. Impassive and stony and Eames feels a surge in his chest at the sight.

“Saito never visits me two nights in a row, unless I’m traveling with him.” Arthur stands and takes the breakfast tray to set outside his door. 

Eames watches the swell of his ass as Arthur bends to set down the tray. He can’t help himself.

\---

They still aren’t talking about it a few days later. And Eames is nearly driven mad by it. Not even that he wants to touch kiss fuck Arthur, but he just wants to know where they stand. If Mr. Saito is going to know. If he already knows. If Eames’ last breaths are countable.

As usual, Eames reports to Arthur’s room promptly and knocks to be let in. 

Nothing.

This is strange for Arthur. There’s no vase of flowers outside his door. No sign he shouldn’t open. So he knocks again ten seconds later and when Arthur still doesn’t reply, Eames uses his key to slip in.

He’s expecting Arthur strung up in shibari under Mr. Saito or dead under his coffee table. But instead, he’s greeted with an Arthur sized lump under the covers. He can hear his slow deep breathing. Asleep.

Eames considers waking up with an obnoxious, “Late, I see, Mr. Arthur” but when he peels back the duvet, his resolve melts.

Arthur looks sweet and calm asleep. His lips are slightly parted and he sleeps on his stomach with his face tilted to the side so he can breathe. He’s got the pillow tucked between his arms and his eyelashes flutter over his cheekbones.

He’s pretty, Eames realizes uncomfortably. Arthur has always been beautiful and fierce and formidable, but now Eames realizes that he’s pretty too.

Eames isn’t totally sure what to make of that.

So he locks the door and slides into bed next to him. Eames doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes feeling Arthur’s warmth next to him. He likes slowing his breathing so that it’s in time with Arthur’s. He likes imagining that this is normal life for them.

He imagines that they live in England together in a small flat outside London. Eames used to have a dingy little flat with tetchy plumbing and no insulation in the winter. He images Arthur in a flat like that and it makes him smile. Arthur is such a creature of comfort. He’d hate the creaking floors and the drafty walls.

Eames imagines Arthur would especially hate the way Eames had lived then. Back then, he was gambling heavily and hadn’t learned to cheat yet properly yet, so he was hemorrhaging money. 

Learning to count cards hadn’t done Eames many favors either, though. It made him cocky. When he started making money, he was stupid with it. Thought himself invincible and tangled up in the wrong sort of people. People Arthur would think tacky and would dismantle with a single raised eyebrow. Eames would actually like to see that.

Eames must have fallen asleep because one moment he’s exhaling with Arthur and then next, Arthur is pressed up against him, kissing his neck.

In his surprise, Eames nearly throws him off. But Arthur hooks a leg over Eames’ hip and he stills.

“You were talking in your sleep, Mr. Eames,” he murmurs into his neck and Eames groans.

“Anything sexy?”

“Something about Nash?” Arthur slides a hand up Eames’ shirt. It’s surreal. They’re talking about Nash and Arthur has his hand splayed against his sternum. “I knew a man named Mr. Nash once.”

Eames scoffs. Nash was a greasy haired little wisp of a conman that liked to play the brains when really he was meant to be the fallguy. Eames never took a liking to him and only worked a few cons with him when he absolutely had to. In fact, the last job (the job that screwed him over for good) was with Nash.

“I doubt it was the same Nash.”

Arthur hums absently, seemingly more invested in Eames’ collarbones. There’s heat there, simmering between them. It’s so at odds with the past few days, so completely contrasted that it makes Eames a little dizzy.

“Ex boyfriend?”

Eames scoffs. “Ex-coworker.” He grips the back of Arthur’s head by the hair and hauls him back. “What’s got you so riled up?”

Arthur’s eyes are dark, pupil blending into the brown of his eyes. His mouth is plush and red, quirked into a sardonic smile. “You smell good and you’re warm.”

“Is Mr. Saito cold?”

Immediately, Eames can feel the mood shift. But Arthur’s expression doesn’t change. He can simply tell. 

“No, but his hands are.”

Eames laughs and spreads his hands wide over Arthur’s hips. “Are mine?”

Arthur grins and flips them over, pulling Eames’ weight over himself. Again, Eames is struck by Arthur’s strength. The power coiled behind those lithe, slender limbs.

“If they were, I’d warm them up.” Then Arthur leans up to kiss him and they’re finished talking.

\---

“We have to talk about this eventually, Arthur.”

Arthur’s head is on his chest, hair spilling everywhere. It’s gotten long over the past few weeks and Eames is running his hands through it. He’s pleased to realize it curls at the ends when it isn’t tortured into submission by pomade.

“Hm, what is _this_?”

Eames rolls his eyes and tugs lightly at his hair. “Does Mr. Saito know?”

Arthur is quiet for a stretch. Eames is about to nudge him into answering when he murmurs back. “He’s not a bad man, Eames.”

Eames thinks back to Arthur crying after Saito left, to Saito's cold impassive stare. “I’m not sure I agree with you there, darling.”

Again, Arthur is quiet. This conversation is getting nowhere fast and Eames is losing patience.

“Arthur, I need to know if I’m in danger. Does he know?”

“No, you’re not in danger.” Arthur shifts off his chest and leans over to fetch his shirt. “And no, he doesn’t know.”

“Are we…going to keep doing this?”

Arthur pauses. Eames can see his ribs flex under the skin of his back. Inhale, exhale. He wants to kiss his spine. He wants to stroke his hair again. And he’s a bad, bad person for it.

“I think so.”

“Alright.” If he keeps pushing this, Eames knows they’ll get into a fight so he changes the subject. “Your hair is getting long.”

Arthur laughs and tugs on the shirt. “You’re right.” 

He stands and Eames appreciates his backside and those long legs before he tugs on his briefs and trousers. They’re wrinkled and Eames can’t help but feel pleased. Seeing Arthur even remotely disassembled shoots an adrenaline thrill through Eames.

“Let’s go into town. I need to get it cut today.”

Eames sits up. The only time he’s seen Arthur outside the house was the day he picked him up from the jet. He wasn’t actually sure Arthur was allowed to leave without Saito.

Right now, Arthur is selecting relatively casual clothing. Denim jeans that Eames is sure feel like butter to the touch. A pale blue button up similar to the color of the kimono he wore when Eames first met him. 

Eames watches him undress and then redress, trying not to let himself hunger. “So the bird does get released from his cage.”

Arthur scowls and fixes Eames with a look over his shoulder. “If I’m the bird in the cage, does that make you the cage? Or another bird?”

\---

It turns out, Arthur’s hairdresser is an old woman named Etsuko who cuts hair in her very pink kitchen. When Arthur knocks on her door (a small, pale house with one floor) she answers immediately and sweeps them both inside.

She’s a hunched over woman who doesn’t speak any English, but forces Arthur to translate a few dozen questions. Eames likes listening to Arthur speak Japanese. His voice gets low and gravelly, riding the monotone. And he holds his mouth in a pout, almost like a frenchman. It’s very appealing.

“She wants to know where you went to school,” Arthur murmurs as Etsuko trims the hair at the base of his neck. Etsuko has tied a towel around Arthur’s neck. It’s pink with pale green dots and Eames cannot believe his luck that he’s witnessing this.

“Never finished. But I majored in Art History.”

Arthur translates to Etsuko. He must add his own commentary because Etsuko laughs and gives Eames a soft look.

She says something else and Arthur flushes. Eames didn’t think that Arthur could flush, but his ears are pink and he’s laughing. She continues to tease him and her tone is pressing.

“Etsuko says you’ve got a lovely smile.”

Everything is so lovely and warm and Etsuko makes Eames laugh even when he can’t understand what she’s saying. He wants to stay here for as long as possible, but just as Etsuko is finishing, Arthur gets a call.

Eames can barely make out the person on the other side, but he doesn’t recognize the voice.

Arthur’s face is serious and concerned as he speaks. “Are you absolutely sure?” A long pause and Arthur is standing. The towel falls from his shoulders and he stoops to pick it up, even as he’s patting himself down to make sure he has everything.

Eames looks to Etsuko who looks to Eames. She begins to pack up her hair cutting supplies. Arthur is making his way to the door.

“Etsuko,” Arthur turns to her and spouts off something in Japanese and she nods in response. Her eyes are wide and scared. This hasn’t happened before, Eames can tell. “No, Cobb, that wasn’t for you.”

Cobb? As in Mrs. Cobb? But that was a man’s voice on the line…

“Can you meet us? We took the car, but…”

Arthur suddenly turns to Eames as if he’d forgotten he was there. He places his hand over the speaker. “Do you still have that gun I gave you?” Then, annoyed responds to ‘Cobb.’ “No, that was to my bodyguard, Eames.”

Arthur stops cold for a moment and turns back to look at Eames. The look in his eye makes Eames shudder and he isn’t quite sure why. For a moment, they stand still, staring at each other.

Then Arthur seems to remember himself and tugs Eames out the door and Eames hears the deadlock click behind them.

“Don’t be absurd, Cobb. We’ll be fine.” Then Arthur tucks his phone away. “Come on, we need to get as far away from here as possible.”

“What the hell was that?”

Arthur breaks into a dead sprint down the street. Japan is a hilly country and he’s peeling down a steep slope. Eames runs after him.

“What is…” Eames manages between pants, “…going on? Goddamn it, Arthur…” 

“Eames, I’d love to talk right now, but as you can see, we’re running.”

A black car pulls to a sudden stop in front of them. Eames instinctively moves to cover Arthur and draw his gun, but Arthur is opening the car door.

Eames ducks in just as the car’s driver speaks. “…not sure we should let him in.”

The man in front is not Japanese. He’s white with pale eyes and a face that simultaneously looks young and old.

He’s Dominic Cobb and Eames has worked with him before.


	7. Chapter 7

“Cobb, long time no see.” Eames closes the door. “Now, would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

Cobb hesitates. It's less than a few seconds, but Arthur snaps, “Dom! Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

The car lurches forward and Eames nearly smacks his face against the headrest of the driver’s seat. Arthur manages to crawl into the front passenger seat while Dom careens around corners.

“Tell me there’s a gun in the glove box, tell me…” Arthur makes a soft sound of gratitude. “Brilliant. A glock. How did you know?”

“I know your terrible taste in guns better than almost anyone.”

“Not terrible. Glocks are dependable as any other-”

Eames has had it. “Anyone feel like cluing me in to what we’re running from?”

Arthur sighs and looks back to him through the rearview mirror. “You’ve heard of Marrow-Fischer, yes?”

Out of all of Arthur’s surprises, this one has to take the cake. “Yes, but what do you…”

Arthur snaps a magazine into place, but leaves on the safety. “Cobb and I did a job for them once.”

Cobb’s eyes flit back to Eames through the mirror. “Went south.”

It’s a lot to take in at once. Arthur…kept boy Arthur with lovely long legs and a mouth that falls open in the most fetching way. Arthur is in dreamshare.

Actually, Eames doesn’t find this all that surprising. The Beretta in his drawer. The quick way he pinned Eames. The something secret that Eames couldn’t place. No, what’s surprising is that Eames didn’t realize it himself.

He leans back, frustrated. “Marrow-Fischer, huh?” He keeps his tone light and amiable, but he feels oddly betrayed. “They’re going to run us down hard.”

“Then we’ll lead them on a merry chase.”

“A merry chase to where, exactly?”

“Just back to the house for now,” Cobb murmurs. He sounds calm for a man going 90 mph the wrong way down a country road.

“If we can get there before they locate us.”

“As if Morrow-Fischer would touch either of us there.”

Eames runs a hand through his hair as he realizes something else he missed. “You’re Mal Cobb’s husband.” He’s frustrated with himself for not making that connection earlier.

Cobb laughs. “Yes. Yes, I am. Lovely isn’t she?”

“Dom,” Arthur growls. “Focus.”

Eames looks over his shoulder. “Doesn’t look much like we’re being followed, gents.”

“I’d like to keep it that way.”

Cobb laughs. “Arthur’s a bit paranoid.”

“It’s why I’m still alive.”

Eames settles back, chuckling. “Sounds like something you’d say.”

Arthur’s paranoia seems to be for naught, because they make it back to the house with no interference. Once they’re in the garage, Arthur relaxes and takes the magazine out.

Cobb seems a little less relaxed. “Fuck, we timed this all wrong.”

Eames arches a brow. “I don’t think they followed us h—“

“He means for you.” Arthur sounds bored and tired. He’s tucking the glock back into the glove compartment. “It doesn’t matter, Cobb. We had to tell him soon anyway. And it's not like we can do the job now.” He gets out of the car and Cobb follows him. 

For a moment, Eames hesitates. Maybe he should just climb into the front seat and steal the car. He stays glued there for a moment, listening to Cobb and Arthur’s muffled argument, before stepping out himself, hand hovering over the small of his back where he’s tucked his pistol.

“I’m not sure about this anymore.” He leans into Arthur, lowering his voice but not bothering to whisper. “He’s a forger, Arthur.”

Arthur just shrugs. “There are plenty of good thieves. You should have thought of this earlier if you were uncomfortable…”

Eames has had enough of this. “What’re you worried about? That I’ll hunt down Mr. Saito and tell him everything I know? Which is nothing, seeing as you two still have yet to clue me in.”

Arthur’s gaze is fixed on him. Cobb eyes him warily and when Arthur shifts his gaze to him, Cobb sighs and throws up his hands. “Fine! Tell him!”

“Saito knows.” Arthur is straightening his already straight collar. He’s nervous even though he looks completely calm. 

Eames thrills at finding a tell. And then his stomach drops through. “About you and…”

“No,” Arthur sneers and drops his hands. Tell gone. But he very nearly flinches as if to look at Cobb. Interesting. “He knows I used to work in dreamshare. He’s the one who hired us.”

“Hired…” Eames repeats slowly and then groans. “Fuck, fuck, seriously? You’re _that_ Arthur?”

Arthur nods. “And you’re that Eames. Forger and currently Cobb’s replacement.”

“Your replacement…” Eames repeats. Fuck, that means Arthur’s last bodyguard was…

Cobb powers right through the thought. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t realize this sooner.”

“Sooner?” Eames rifles. “How…”

“My wife introduces herself as Mal Cobb. You knew an Arthur worked with me. _You_ didn’t put _that_ together?”

Eames frowns. Cobb is right. He has been off his game lately. Distracted. His attention slides to Arthur, who is looking at Cobb. He shouldn’t have let one man throw him off like this.

And has he ever really been this off? Certainly, there was that stretch in Kenya where all he did was gamble and drink, but even drunk off his ass and high off cheated wins, he managed to catch and dodge a tail without even leaving the continent.

And there was that stretch in Rio and another in Barcelona, but he never would have missed this. Arthur and Cobb are two of the biggest names in dreamshare and certainly the biggest pair, but Eames missed it completely. Thrown off the scent by a pretty face and a long set of legs.

_And a pale blue yukata in the morning._

Eames shakes his head. He doesn’t have the time or energy for this. “So, as lovely as Mr. Saito’s garage is, perhaps we should step inside? 

Arthur sighs. “I can explain the rest to Eames on my own.”

Cobb nods, “I have to check in with Mal. We should probably leave town. Eames?” He extends his hand. “I’m sorry about the confusion. Arthur will give you my current number and we’ll be in touch.”

“Not at all,” Eames returns the handshake with a warm grin, but he certainly isn’t feeling it. He feels churned up inside. Sick to his stomach. And he’s fairly certain it’s Arthur’s fault.

—

When they get to Arthur’s room he shoves him up against the wall, forearm pressed tight over his throat. Arthur’s face is pulled up in surprise for a moment and then falls into defeated acceptance. It pissed Eames off more than anything.

“You knew who I was. Didn’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t respond and Eames presses harder. Arthur chokes and Eames is only encouraged to hold his grip.

“ _Didn’t you_?”

“Yes,” Arthur manages and pushes at his arm, trying to get some air. He’s not scrambling or wheezing, but there’s a hint of cold panic in his eyes. A little too much white around the irises. Pupils a little too wide. 

Eames gives it to him. Barely. “And you didn’t tell me. Why?”

Arthur huffs and pushes at his arm again. His face will start turning red soon. Eames could kill him here and now. It helps. It makes him feel more in control. He pushes again just for the thrill of it. Arthur. Helpless under his control.

“We were waiting for the right time.” He’s shifting under his arm, eyes going a little glassy. His cheeks are flushed and Eames can feel his pulse under his arm.

Eames pauses, thinking back to something Cobb said. He growls. “Did you _plan_ this?”

Arthur just nods. His cheeks are flushed and the red is spreading to his ears. Eames applies more pressure until he starts talking again. “We needed a forger for the job we were going to work on Fischer. So Cobb looked into it and hired you to bodyguard me.”

“Why bodyguard? Why lie? Why not just hire me straight on?”

Arthur gasps and doesn’t respond. His eyes are going glassy. Eames lets off a little. 

“I didn’t trust you. It’s a big job…”

Eames sucks his teeth. “Are you still going to do it?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. Not when we’ve been made.”

“What happened with Cobb?”

“He got me in touch with Saito. We were here to do tell Saito everything we knew and start recon for…for the next job. I started out as a guard for the house, just like Cobb, but then…”

Eames feels a sharp pang of jealousy in his chest and it makes him furious. He throws his full weight into his arm and Arthur lets out a sound of pain. 

Finally. Something real.

“But then Saito took an interest in me…” Arthur blurts out between gasps. His hand is pressed against Eames’, almost holding it. “Cobb acted as my bodyguard for a few years until Fischer-Morrow developed a tail on him. He led them away to Mombasa on that job you worked with him.” His eyes meet Eames’. “Please, Eames, I’m telling you everything.”

Eames doesn’t let up. “You’ve been fucking lying to me this whole time. Lying and fucking me.” 

Something ugly has been bubbling under Eames’ skin. Growing and festering and accumulating mold. It’s about to burst like a rotting peach. Blue green filth oozing from his skin. If Eames keeps it in, it’ll eat him alive.

So he spits, “ _Whore_.”

Arthur's eyes light up.

In one motion, Arthur sweeps his leg under Eames’ feet, knocking him away. It was a major mistake. Eames had never been under control. Arthur just let him feel that way. Eames’ eyes sting and he realizes he’s crying.

Arthur is above him. His face is red from oxygen deprivation, but impassive. Eyes cast over Eames, mouth turned into a slight frown. As if he just found a dead wasp on his window sill.

“Fuck you,” Eames splutters and stands. “I hope Saito uses you up and throws you to Fischer-Morrow.”

“You’re not being fair,” Arthur murmurs. There’s a cut to his voice. Like a razor working just under the skin. A fine, painful cut.

“You lied.”

“You lied, too. You just weren’t clever enough to realize my lies.” He swallows and it’s a dry, hoarse sound. “Get out, Mr. Eames. We’re done here.”

“Fuck you, Arthur,” Eames repeats, just to say it. Just to say something as he leaves.

—

He ends up just going back to his room. He doesn’t have much to pack, but he’s fucking exhausted and doesn’t want to go through the trouble of stealing one of Saito’s cars and finding the nearest airport.

He just collapses onto his bed, face down and ready to sleep.

If he hears Arthur crying a few hours later, he doesn’t care. If he hears a loud crash and the shatter of glass he still doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all.

—

Morning brings a headache and a new sense of reason. Eames was angry yesterday. Angry and vulnerable and he reacted by trying to attack Arthur.

Arthur was only doing what Eames would have done. And he certainly doesn’t want to burn bridges with someone like Arthur. At least not professionally. If things were different, he would have even taken that job.

There’s another, heavier feeling sinking through his esophagus, but he chooses to ignore it.

Still, he feels he should at least apologize to Arthur. So, in his wrinkled clothes from yesterday, he pads over to Arthur’s room and knocks on his door.

No answer. Not totally unexpected. He told Arthur to fuck himself repeatedly. So he knocks again. Again, nothing.

“Arthur,” he leans against the door, “Look, mate, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…look can you just open the door?”

Nothing. Eames remembers Arthur’s whole wounded cat routine last time. That same sting comes back, just remembering Arthur crying over someone else. Irritation floods through him.

He shoves through the door. “Can we at least talk about this like adults…”

Eames trails off. The room is too cold. The window is shattered. Arthur’s coffee table and desk chair are overturned. Leading up to the window, a streak of blood across the white carpeting.

Panic courses through Eames like he’s never quite felt before. Not that time when the loan sharks caught up with him and he spent a long weekend in some guy’s basement. Not that time when he was wrenched from a dream halfway through an extraction. Never in his life.

Arthur isn’t in his bed. Arthur isn’t here.

Eames let them take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're like me and get nervous about sad endings...don't worry. Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

As if switched to autopilot, Eames knows what to do. Arthur keeps his phone under the mattress and when Eames slides his hand under it’s still there. He finds Cobb’s number under “DC” (everyone in Arthur’s phone is saved under initials. There’s three or four “DCs” but this is the only one with a Japanese number) and calls him while rifling through Arthur’s desk. His files are gone, but that doesn’t mean they were taken. His laptop is still here which is a good sign for Eames (one, because he has what Arthur was working on; two, because it means Arthur’s abductors left in too great a hurry to follow through. They might make more mistakes).

“Arthur.” Cobb says when he picks up. “You promised to call hours ag—“

“Arthur’s been taken,” Eames shoots back and that pain returns. He quells down the panic. “His room looks a wreck.”

“Eames? The fuck…you were supposed to stay with him. What the hell happened—”

“Too much to go into. Do you have any idea where they might have taken him?”

Cobb is quiet for a moment and then, “Hold on.” He’s quiet again, but there’s a muffled rustling that sounds like typing on a touch screen. Cobb picks up a moment later. “Saito is on his way over.”

“What? No, you can’t—”

“No one else can know about Arthur’s situation and you can’t do this alone.”

“Well then why don’t you help me, you fucking—”

“I was worried about Fischer-Morrow. Mal and I already on a train headed to Toyko. We’ll do the best we can remotely, but—”

Eames’ frustration with Cobb is interrupted by a there’s a sharp knock on the door. Mr. Saito, crisp in a charcoal suit, is standing in Arthur’s doorway.

“I must say I am disappointed, Mr. Eames.” He scans the room and he looks so calm and impassive, Eames could hit him. Hard. “I have arranged a car downstairs. Take Arthur’s laptop. We should get going.”

—

Saito drives while Eames rifles through Arthur’s files. Most of them are loosely encrypted, but Eames manages to decode them by the time they hit the main roads. 

“From Arthur’s research, it seems that Fischer-Morrow has a few safe houses only a couple of hours from here.”

Saito nods. “Did he have any research on who was in town?”

Eames clicks through some documents, waits for one to decode and then opens it. “Looks like a Peter Browning?”

Saito sits up straighter. It's a small tell, just a bare aligning of vertebrae, but Eames isn't called the best in the business for nothing.

“Name ring a bell?”

Saito doesn’t answer. “Did Arthur specify where?”

Eames shakes his head.

“Call Cobb.”

While Eames waits on the ringing phone, he catalogues all the potential dangers Arthur is facing. The blood on the floor was a streak leading toward the window. Enough to be from a fatal injury. It could be Arthur’s body dragged out. He could have already been disposed of. Eames could have prevented this if he had just…

“Eames? Eames!”

“Sorry, Cobb. What do you know about Peter Browning?”

Cobb pauses for a moment. “I know where is safe house is. Do you think he has Arthur?”

“Yeah,” Eames sighs. “It seems Arthur thought he was closing in on him; he had a lot of notes on Browning. But…”

Cobb swears loudly. “We led Browning right to him.”

“What?” 

“The chase. They never wanted to catch us, they just wanted to see where we would go.” 

There’s a loud bang on the other side of the line and then silence and then Mal Cobb’s soft, lilting French. 

“Hello, Mr. Eames. Why don’t I text you Browning’s address?”

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Cobb, thank you.”

“Mal,” she corrects softly, “And Eames?”

“Yes?”

“You better find our Arthur”

He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I know.”

—

Eames receives the address from an unknown number twenty seconds after hanging up. The phone’s GPS tells him that the drive is only an hour and twenty away.

It’s short, all things considered, but he’s sharing a car with his employer after he’s badly botched a job. And, oh yeah, Eames is sleeping with his kept boy. Behind his back.

They sit in awkward silence for about ten minutes. And Eames still cataloguing what could have happened to Arthur (left for dead with a gunshot in his stomach, knee caps blown out and bamboo rods shoved under his fingernails, hanging by his wrists with electric cables clamped between his toes) when Saito finally speaks.

“Peter Browning is a highly dangerous man, Mr. Eames. He’s been angling to take the company for years and I imagine that Arthur’s capture has something to do with it.”

“You think he’s using him as leverage against you?”

Saito nods. “Or in hopes of getting information. All I’m saying is…be careful. He has no reason to not hurt Arthur if it benefits him.”

Eames doesn’t want to hear this. It won’t help him. “How old is he? Is he in good health?”

“He’s in his late fifties. And he’s a bad back, if I remember correctly. But he’s the type to surround himself with powerful people, financially and physically. You should be prepared for guards.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Arthur took a liking to you.”

Eames winces. “Did he say that?”

Saito shakes his head. “No. He just mentioned you a few times. He doesn’t talk about people that don’t interest him.”

“Ah…”

Saito sighs and continues. “I knew Dom before I knew Arthur. I only met Arthur when Dom brought him to the summer house.” He’s thumbing over the steering wheel and his gaze is on the horizon. Far away. “It only took me a week to realize I wanted him.”

“Wanted him? Look, Mr. Saito, no disrespect, but I don’t really need to know about your sex life…”

Saito scoffs. “Desire can be more than just sexual, Mr. Eames.”

Eames doesn’t want to hear this. He feels raw and sick with worry (Arthur’s fingers chopped off at the first knuckle, pumped full of somnacin and forced to go under into torture again and again and again) and he just wants to stew in silence.

But Saito keeps going. “Arthur is always so in control of himself. Perfectly contained and competent. I suppose I wanted to see that containment burst. And then I wanted to contain it again.”

Eames feels cold. Remembers grinding his elbow against Arthur’s throat. The thrill of it. Of breaking and controlling someone as powerful as Arthur. (Strapped down to a table with gashes along his thighs, trying not to cry, water boarded again and again and again…)

“It didn’t work so well for me, Mr. Eames.” Saito looks to him and makes eye contact for the first time. It’s fleeting, but Eames sees exactly what it means. He knows. He’s always known. “All the windows in my summer home are armed, but it seems Arthur disarmed his window. I suppose he’s been sneaking out at night.” Saito shrugs. “Squeeze something too tight and it’s sure to burst.”

Eames’ stomach churns. The GPS tells them to turn right at the fork. “Does that make you the python and Arthur the mouse?”

“No,” Saito says. “More like a bird and a cage.”

“Does that make me the cage or another bird?” Eames feels sick repeating Arthur’s words, but it also loosens the knot in his chest. Like having some of him near.

Saito shrugs. “Up to you. Or you could be neither. You could be the key.”

“Sounds rather corny, doesn’t it?”

Saito just laughs. “Yes, I suppose it does.” He falls into silence. Then, in the same light tone, “You should have taken better care of him.”

Eames nods. “I will.”

“Alright.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for violence if you're sensitive. Sorry for the longer delay than usual. I've been trying to space these out since we're nearing the end.

The minute they arrive at the safe house, Eames knows this is it. This is where Arthur is being held. He'd like to call it instinct, but it's more likely practice. There are cars parked a few streets down from the house, save one black van in the driveway. The lights in the house are all out except one and it's too dim for the setting sun.

“Keep driving,” Eames growls and Saito continues without question. Eames turns to the back to pull forward his duffle bag. He pulls out the pistol Arthur gave him, along with his own Pico.

Saito raises a brow. “Is that all you brought?”

“It’s all I need. Unless you have an RPG.”

Saito shakes his head. “No.”

Eames nods. “Alright, you can stop the car. Refill the gas tank and come back immediately. We'll need to leave in a hurry. I’ll try to call you if I need you right in front of the house, otherwise, park here and lie low. Keep the engine running and don't put the car in park.”

Saito frowns. “I didn’t come all this way to just drive.” He’s using a voice that he must use in meetings and negotiations. It screams reason and unwillingness to compromise. 

Eames isn’t going to let it sway him. “Stay here.” He gives him his Pico. “Make sure no one else goes to the house.”

Saito takes it with a sardonic smile. “No room for tourists, huh?”

—

The house is a neat two story with a fenced backyard. Eames assumes there’s a cellar in through the garage where they’re keeping Arthur. If not, it’s most likely they’d keep him in the garage or on the upper floor.

He decides to sneak around the back. There’s a backyard full of trees and bushes, all overgrown. The sun is starting to hang low in the sky, casting the yard in dramatic shadows. Perfect.

Circling the house gives him vital information about the layout (garage is accessed through the kitchen which is accessed through the living room). The living room is empty, but the kitchen has two heavily armed guards idling around the center counter.

Another guard emerges from the door leading to what must be the garage. His nose is bleeding and his eye is swelling up. They're standing next to the window which suggests to Eames that they're amateurs. If he knew how many were upstairs or in the garage, he'd just pick them off with a gun.

They were counting on no one finding them. Either because they thought Arthur had no allies or no information on them. Eames feels somewhere between indignant for Arthur's intellect and proud of him.

It’s probably best, tactically, to sneak in through a living room window, draw the guards in there and pick them off as quietly as possible. Or even better, lure a few outside and take the rest in the living room. 

A quick once-over of the guards tells Eames that his biggest threat isn’t going to be the biggest guard, but the slim man idly fiddling with his gun. If he lures him out alone, he’ll have to be careful to disarm him before he can fire his weapon.

For a moment, Eames considers leaving. That’s what he’d usually do, unless an exorbitant amount of money were on the line. He sold out a coworker in Mumbai when a rival team offered him twice his lumpsum. He left his extractor for dead when she didn't make it to the car first. Eames has only survived with a cocktail of selfishness and manufactured luck. It would be easy to be selfish now.

But they have Arthur. Arthur with his dark hair and pale blue kimono and slim thighs. Arthur who encrypts his private laptop and lets business tycoons into his bed. Who disarms his window so he can go out at night. Who is full of contradictions and paradoxes and _can't_ be kept.

And Eames would never forgive himself if he left him there. And Eames has forgive himself for a lot of terrible things.

So he tosses a rock at the window and waits in the shadows. When the largest guard ambles out, Eames wastes no time. He slips behind him to cover his mouth. Before the guard can even react, Eames breaks his neck and lets him fall to the ground with a loud thud.

He’s braced for the rest of the guards this time and isn’t let down. Eames realizes too late that he didn’t check the others for weapons on the man with the bloody face, but he doesn’t have time to fret too much. He attacks the one he knows has a gun first. 

Unfortunately, this attracts the attention of the other and he has to act fast. Before he can get his hand to the gun, Eames takes it from him and holds it to his head. 

The other guard freezes. He’s not a terribly big man. In build, he’s slighter than Eames. 

“Don’t move. No one makes a sound,” Eames growls. 

Slighter guard still advances forward. Ruthless guards, apparently. He can’t blame them. No honor amongst thieves. 

So he snaps this neck and points the gun at the other. His hands go up immediately.

“Is Arthur in there?”

“Who’s Arthur?” Thick American accent, probably from the deep South. 

Eames snarls. “Slim, half-asian man. Is he in the garage?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s in the garage.”

“Is he alive?”

“Look, man, don’t shoot. We can work this out.”

“Is. He. _Alive_?”

“Yes. Yeah, he’s alive.”

“How many people are in the garage?”

“Four, no! Five.”

Shit. Five is too many. Eames can do it, but…

“Armed?”

“Yeah…I’m serious though, don’t shoot. The fellows I work for? Loaded. We can—“

“Last question.” Eames centers his aim. “What earned you that bloody lip.”

Eames can see the moment the man knows he’s fucked. “Look, you know how it is. Bugger got mouthy and-“

Eames shoots the bastard right between the eyes. 

—

As Eames walks through the house to the garage, the sun is sinking behind the horizon. The kitchen is cast in a hazy purple. Although it’s evening, Eames can’t help but think that the light is similar to the light when he first met Arthur.

The slim half-asian man descending to the tarmac. The man who gave him the beretta he carries in a holster now. The man who deserves flowers every day and someone to wake up next to. If Eames gets them out of this alive, he’s going to do both.

Provided Arthur wants both from him. And anything else. Anything else Eames will give to him.

He just has to get through that garage door.

So he opens it.

The guard he killed wasn’t lying: there are five men, all armed. Some leaning against the garage door. Two near Arthur. One is a portly man in a suit.

But Eames barely gives them a second glance. Arthur is strapped to a chair. He’s stripped down to a white tank top and his boxers: Arthur’s sleep clothing. His left eye is swollen purple and his nose is bleeding over his lips and into his teeth. His wrist is at an odd ankle and there's a bruise blossoming over his collarbone. Worst of all, a knife protrudes from his right thigh, blood pooling there and dripping down his calf. So it’s fresh.

His head lolls to the side, barely conscious. But when Eames enters, Arthur lifts his head and smiles. “Eames.”

Eames goes a little haywire after that. He fires three shots and two of the men near the wall and the armed guard near Arthur are dead. The fourth guard lunges for Eames, firing shots, but it barely grazes his side and Eames has him a moment later.

Eames is a good shot. A very good shot. But even against five people, he’s not invincible.

“I think that’s enough, don’t you?” 

He didn’t get the man in the suit. Eames turns slowly and sees that he’s holding two guns. One to Arthur’s head and another aimed at Eames.

“Drop the gun.” Now that he's a better look at him, Eames recognizes his face immediately. He's Peter Browning.

And what else can Eames do? He lets it fall from his fingers and holds his hands up. Even if he lunged for Arthur’s beretta, concealed under his jacket, he wouldn’t make it in time. 

Browning's face is beet red and he's breathing heavily. Even if different circumstances, Eames suspects he’d dislike him. Though, he has mannerism that would be compelling to forge.

“Ah, mate, you were faster than me.” Eames says, angling for charm. He uses an Australian accent and can see Arthur’s mouth tick up into a smile at the deceit. “I didn’t catch your name, though…”

“I didn’t catch yours either.”

His finger isn’t on the trigger, though the safety is off. He probably has been trained to use a gun, but never fired one outside a shooting range. This bodes well, but it’s still not worth the risk. Eames waits.

“James Bishop,” Eames lies. “Now I think you’ve got something I want. I’m impressed you managed to wrangle him down. I’ve been trying for months.”

“And why do you want him?”

So he’s not good with a gun, but he’s done negotiations before. Eames feels sweat pool just above his lip. He’s got nothing right now and there’s too much at stake. Even a seasoned professional is bound to make mistakes under these conditions. 

Arthur. Arthur is the priority here.

Eames shifts on his feet. “He’s got information I want.”

“Funny, I feel the same way.” Browning shoves the barrel of the gun up against Arthur’s temple. Arthur doesn’t even flinch.

In that moment, it hits Eames that he’s in love with him. He’s going to get Arthur out of this alive. He has to.

“That is funny. What’d the bastard do to you, eh?”

“Spying on the company. Why don’t you have a seat on the ground there, Mr. Bishop?”

When Eames doesn’t respond immediately, Browning raises his gun a few inches above Arthur’s head and fires a shot. Arthur’s hair rustles under the bullet, but he still doesn’t flinch.

Eames sees a flash of car lights through the cracks of the garage door. Saito. He lowers himself to the ground.

“Woah, woah, mate, calm down. Maybe we can work something out. I work for Mr. Saito.”

Eames sees Browning noticeably pause at that. He's been angling to inherit Fischer-Morrow for years. Eames would have paused too.

But he doesn't lower the gun. “No, no I don’t think so. See, I have no reason to keep you alive.”

No, no, _no._

“I know things about him. I know his weak points. Come on, mate, we’re on the same side.” But Eames is panicking. He’s running out of options.

“I’m not really a team player, Mr. Bishop.”

What happens next goes quickly even for Eames.

The door behind Eames opens and Browning looks up. A bullet is fired and Browning fires back. Eames takes the opportunity to pull out Arthur’s Beretta and put a bullet in Browning’s throat. It’s not very clean. The jugular splatter hits Eames in the face.

There’s a thud behind Eames.

Saito has his hand clutched to his chest and he’s sagging against the door. Eames winces and moves to him, taking off his jacket and balling it to press against his chest.

“No room for tourists, huh?” 

Eames cringes and presses harder. He was shot in the shoulder, but Eames can’t see an exit wound. “You’re going to be fine. Just…”

Saito waves him off. “Go check on Arthur.”

Eames nods and runs to him. Arthur is still conscious, but his eyelids are drooping. “Thought you’d do this one solo, huh?”

“Shut up,” Eames is working open the knots. It looks like the knife missed Arthur’s femoral artery, but he still needs to get it wrapped up. Eames feels light headed from all the blood. He can’t imagine what Arthur is feeling. “I got here didn’t I? I need to get you to the hospital.”

“No hospital,” Saito says. His voice is a hoarse rattle. Eames bets he only has thirty more minutes. “I have a private doctor close. Very quiet. Take us there.”

Eames ignores Saito and takes off his shirt to tie around Arthur’s thigh. Arthur snorts. “How very action hero of you, Eames.”

“If you liked that…” Eames murmurs and picks Arthur up, bridal style so as not to disturb the knife. He turns to Saito. “Can you walk?”

Saito nods and presses his palm to the garage door button. “Car’s still running. I’ll direct you there.”

Eames just nods. Arthur’s head lolls against his chest and his breathing is labored. He’ll be out cold soon and then Eames will be out of time.

He’s so busy in his own head that he doesn’t notice Arthur trying to get his attention until he taps his chest.

“Eames?”

“What is it?” Eames had shot for a neutral tone, but it comes out gentle and concerned.

“I’m sorry for lying.”

Eames winces. “Don’t worry about it. You can apologize properly once we get you all fixed up, yeah?”

Arthur makes a soft, scoffing sound and his eyes slip closed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter, friends. Thank you for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing.

True to his word, Saito’s doctor is discrete and efficient. It’s a small, quiet practice and-in the three days they’ve been there-Eames has yet to see anyone else populating the waiting room. Just nurses. There isn't even a receptionist.

Arthur had initially needed stitches in his thigh, forehead, and arm; a cast for his broken wrist; and blood transfusions. Lots of blood transfusions. Now they’ve got him on an IV drip and bed rest. At least that’s what the lovely nurse told Eames.

What Eames doesn’t know is if Arthur has woken up since their arrival. He tried to visit him once, but the doctor (a middle aged man who only goes by Dr. Yuu) tells him Arthur needs time alone.

Time alone. To heal.

They haven’t been unkind to Eames. A nurse brings him three meals a day (miso, plain fish, and rice) and no one objects to him sleeping in the waiting room. The waiting room is nicer than any living room Eames has owned and has plush leather couches. Saito must have bought the practice out because no one but nurses and Dr. Yuu has even passed through.

But Eames is still antsy. He’s not used to spending this much time in one place and he certainly doesn’t know what to do with his worry for Arthur. Much less his newfound… _affection_ …for him. 

Eames spends all three days on the waiting room coach, trying to read a book that a nurse brought for him and thinking about Arthur. The book is bloody terrible—a bodice ripping romance (presumably brought to him because it was the only book she could find in English). And Eames can’t focus on Japanese television for more than a few minutes because a) it’s brighter and louder than British television and b) it’s in fucking Japanese.

So Eames is forced to face his thoughts about Arthur. His hair and his smile and, disturbingly, the way he looks with blood between his teeth. Eames tries to formulate his first words to Arthur when he sees him again. Tries to perfect the wording and the expression on his face. Never gets much farther than, "You gave us quite a scare there." But even that feels weak.

He spends an entire day fixated on why he hasn't been allowed to see Arthur. Has Arthur woken up? Does he not want to see him?

So, yeah. Eames would very much like to leave. All the way up until Dr. Yuu informs Eames that Arthur would like to see him.

—

In his hospital bed, Arthur looks pale and weak. But he immediately sits up when he sees Eames. His mouth is set in a thin line. Eyes hard above the dark shadows and gaunt cheek hollows.

“If I have to lie still in bed one more day, Eames, I'm going to murder someone” he says before Eames can even sit down. “I need you to get me out of here.”

Eames wants to take his hand and kiss his fingertips. Eames wants to hold his face and press their foreheads together and tell him how sorry he is. Eames wants to kiss his cheeks and his neck and his shoulders and hold him.

There's a vase of yellow roses next to Arthur's bed. And some stargazer lilies on his windowsill. 

Eames wants to run and shove all these feelings away where he can’t feel them.

“Not sure if that’s wise,” Eames hums, “Apparently your ribs are still broken.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth as if he can’t be bothered by three broken ribs. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”

Opting for insanity instead of practicality, Eames takes his hand in his own. Arthur’s attention snaps to him, but his expression isn’t pulled into irritation. He doesn’t jerk his hand away. He stares at Eames as if waiting for his next bizarre move.

“I can’t believe you’re still alive.” He meant to say it sardonically, but couldn’t commit. The words rasp out of his throat, choking on what he very nearly lost.

Arthur’s brow lowers and he nods. It’s one of those rare moment of complete vulnerability that Eames adores. Arthur’s face opens up to all his complicated emotions, tumbling over each other. “I never dreamed you’d come for me.”

Eames laughs, soft and just as vulnerable. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

—

Arthur let’s him stay the rest of the day. Let’s Eames tell him all about the adventure of finding him. Eames leaves out the uncomfortable conversation with Saito.

“Have you heard about Saito?” Arthur asks. He’s just recovered from laughing at Eames’ description of Saito wielding a gun. Arthur has a cruel, sharp sense of humor sometimes. Eames loves it.

He doesn’t love Arthur asking after Saito. “No, but someone is still paying the bills, so I imagine he’s alive.” Eames glances over the roses and then asks, quietly. “Are you going to go back to his…care…after all this?”

Arthur looks down to his hands. “Do you know how to make a paper crane, Eames?”

Eames sighs. He's' getting tired of chasing Arthur around labyrinth corners. “No, I don’t.”

Arthur slips out a package of origami paper from under his pillow. “It isn’t difficult. Let me teach you.”

Eames nearly doesn’t take the paper Arthur offers him, but he’s not that petty and he doesn’t want to insult Arthur out of talking to him. The paper is soft, almost like cloth. A pretty deep blue with gold pinpricks almost like stars.

Arthur shows Eames how to make a square base and valley folds. Then they start the squash fold, which Eames botches and needs Arthur to fix. Their fingers brush as Arthur guides the paper into place. Eames is used to paper being unyielding, stiff and crisp. But in origami, with the paper warmed by his hands and relaxed by so many folds, it feels soft. Fragile and malleable and tentative. 

Arthur laughs softly, showing dimples. Then sobers as he’s handing the paper back.

“I can’t go back to Saito’s after this. I’m not safe there.” He shifts the paper between his fingers. “Now fold in each side like this. This is the main difference between an American crane and—“

Eames can’t handle anymore. “Why on earth did you agree to sleep with him in the first place?”

“—and a Japanese crane,” Arthur finishes softly. He looks down again. “I don’t see why that matters to you.”

“You matter to me. And I want to know the truth.”

Arthur sucks in a breath through his teeth. He’s finishing the folds of his crane. Slow, overly careful. “Because Cobb told me to.”

“Bullshit.”

Arthur grits his teeth so tightly that Eames can see his jaw flex. “You wanted to know why and now you do.”

“So you’re telling me you had no attraction to him. You just do what Cobb tells you to.”

Arthur sighs. “Of course I was attracted to him. I was attracted to his wealth and power and he has a handsome face. Did I need a better reason?”

“So which one was it? Because you’re Cobb’s obedient lapdog or because you had a crush?”

Arthur winces. “Don’t be condescending, Eames.”

Eames looks down at his crumpled, mangled paper bird. “Come away with me.”

Arthur tugs his own crane’s wings apart, inflating its stomach with air. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Arthur sets his crane aside. It’s crisp and perfect. Eames shouldn’t have expected anything less from him. 

“Cobb will be waiting for me. We need to reconvene.”

“Reconvene,” Eames repeats bitterly. Everything in him aches and he just wants to leave. He clenches the origami paper in his fist.

Arthur lets out a choked, wet sound. Eames is too soft; he looks up immediately. “I know you’re jealous of Saito, Eames.”

Eames opens his mouth to argue, but Arthur just shakes his head and rubs his eyes.

“It’s alright. But you have no reason to be jealous. You’ve never had any reason to be jealous.”

“So come away with me.” Eames fumbles for his hand and gets caught in the IV tubes. But he works through them to take Arthur’s fingers tightly. 

“We’d be a good team. You can run point and extraction. I’m a half decent architect. We could work together.” But Eames can see in Arthur’s eyes he’s going to say no before he even responds. Eames grits his jaw. “Why not?”

“I have to meet with Cobb, Eames.” Arthur turns his hand over to take his. But it doesn’t comfort Eames the way it should. “I have to.”

Eames nods. There’s a hard pressure pushing at his ribcage. It’s hard to breathe. He imagines leaving here alone. Taking a flight back to England alone. Looking for work alone. How empty his apartment will be when he arrives alone. Never hearing from Arthur again until he’s tapped for a job. The thought suffocates him.

“Is that why you were crying? The night I came into your room? Because you missed Cobb?”

Arthur laughs and shakes his head. “No.” But he doesn’t offer anything more than that.

—

Eames does end up leaving the hospital alone. He has the crumpled origami paper clenched in his fist and one million yen from Saito via a nurse. But no Arthur. Not even a phone number.

He’s hunched over in a cab, feeling sorry for himself when he realizes.

Arthur didn’t call him Mr. Eames. Arthur called him _Eames_.

—


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, friends. Thank you for everyone who read, subscribed, commented, bookmarked, and overall supported.

—  
—  
 _Seven months later…_  
—  
—

It’s a Sunday morning and Eames is puttering around his apartment. He’d managed to blow half a million yen on gambling and self pity in the first two months after leaving Arthur. But that still leaves him with nearly three thousand pounds and he has a possible job lined up for him in the upcoming months.

It’s a typical art heist job, which used to be interesting for Eames. But since working in dreamshare, since meeting Arthur, everything else falls flat. It’s like Arthur has wrapped Eames’ head in gauze. Everything is muffled.

In theory, everything is just about fine. He hasn’t been gambling for seven months straight. No one from Fischer-Morrow has found him. And rumor in the dreamshare community has spread that he once worked with Cobb and Arthur, which is only helping his job prospects.

But Eames has that crumpled half-bird on his bedside table. And he hasn’t stopped thinking about Arthur since he left. Not for one second.

The toast should be done soon and there’s a leak in his ceiling and he needs to get a jumper from his closet because he’s cold. Eames doesn't usually run cold.

When he gets back to the kitchen, there he is. Arthur. Arthur is sitting on the countertop eating his toast. Without butter. 

Arthur looks crisp and squared away in a charcoal gray suit. He’s got shadows hanging under his eyes and his hair no longer falls in soft curls around his face. But Eames sees a little more breadth in his shoulders and more square in his jaw. He looks good. This surpasses Eames’ surprise to see him there.

Arthur’s legs are crossed and he’s leaning back on one hand as he surveys Eames. Eames is insanely grateful he pulled on a jumper over his “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt. (It’s less of an ironic purchase than Eames wants to admit.)

“I put another slice of bread in for you,” Arthur says and folds the remainder of his toast in half to press into his mouth. Eames loves the way Arthur eats. Like he’s slaughtering. But neatly. 

He imagines it's the way that Arthur kills.

“I’m more concerned about how you got in, darling.” Eames voice sounds casual, but he has to turn to fix himself a cup of tea. He doesn’t want Arthur to see his face for too long.

“Please,” Arthur sucks his teeth.

Right. They’re doing this again. They’re doing this always.

Eames sighs and shoves a hand through his hair. If he’d have known Arthur was coming, he’d have at least trimmed it. “Why are you here, Arthur?”

When Eames looks back, Arthur’s face settles into a series of hard lines. He’s got a face with angles that cast dramatic shadows depending on his expression. Protean Arthur. He could make a decent forger if he could learn to be more loose with himself. 

“We have a job for you.”

Of course they do. “Not interested.”

Arthur’s expression doesn’t change, but Eames would guess he’s surprised. Good. Let the tables turn a bit.

“May I ask why not?”

“May I ask why you didn’t come with me?” Eames bites back and regrets it. His asperity gives away the depth of his emotions and he doesn’t want to give Arthur anything. Not even anger.

Arthur, to Eames’ credit, looks pained. But that expression, too, is tucked away somewhere where Eames will never follow. Will never be allowed to follow. “I had to meet with Cobb.”

“You said that.” Eames stares down at his tea. Small ripples work their way toward the center of the cup and Eames realizes only then that his hands are trembling. He should send Arthur away now. Before he crumples like origami paper and lets Arthur have whatever he wants.

Arthur has always had a way of getting what he wants from Eames.

“It’s the truth, Eames.”

“But only half of one. Tell me I’m wrong.” He’s still staring down at his tea. Still focusing on the ripples. Wonders if this is what the ocean looks like from far away.

“You’re not wrong.”

Eames winces and sets down his cup. It hits the counter too hard and the sound sends an umbrageous wave through Eames. Up his arms, through his shoulder, straight to his throat. “You need to leave, Arthur.” When Arthur doesn’t make a move to leave, Eames snaps. “Now.”

That sends Arthur to his feet, but he doesn’t move. His brow is furrowed and he’s not looking at Eames, but down the hall toward his bedroom. It makes Eames wonder if he’s been here before. If he’s seen the crane on his bedside table.

“There is no job, Eames.” Arthur turns his gaze to Eames now. His hands are clasped into fists at his side and Eames only realizes now that they’ve been clasped the whole time.

Seven months ago, Eames would have hoped. Instead he sighs. “Then why are you here, Arthur?”

“I don’t know.”

Well, at least it’s honest. “Does Cobb know you’re here?”

Arthur shakes his head and looks back to the bedroom. He’s biting his lower lip. Like a punished child.

Eames shakes his head. “Arthur…”

“I used to think I loved him,” Arthur blurts. His ears are turning pink. “At least, I had an infatuation with him. I was a teenager and he took me in. I was still feeling for him when he married Mal.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Arthur.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to hear anything from Arthur ever again. He’s going to throw out that damn crane. He’s going to forge a new identity and go to a country he’s never been to. Lebanon, maybe.

“Please, Eames. Just…one more thing for me.” Arthur waits a moment, as if expecting Eames to cut him off. But he doesn’t, so Arthur continues. “And then Cobb asked me to…for Saito…and I…”

Eames stomach twists. 

“It’s not that I minded. Saito never coerced me, but Cobb was so adamant that I…it pained me. Every night pained me. I think Saito knew. I think that’s why he sent me so many flowers. I know that’s why he emphasized the business aspect of our relationship.”

This is so much worse than Eames could have imagined. He lays a hand on the counter to brace his weight. “Stop talking.”

“I wasn’t, though, Eames. I wasn't in love with him.”

“Arthur, stop.”

“Everything was muted for me. Cobb just saved me and I was grateful. I’ve been confusing gratitude with love for as long as I can remember.”

“Arthur, _shut it_.”

“No,” Arthur shot back and suddenly he’s shouting. It loud and sharp and hurts Eames' ears like the crack of a gunshot.

Eames can’t remember if Arthur has ever yelled at him. But he’s yelling now. His face is splotched with red all the way down his neck, knuckles white. Calm shattered. All Eames can do is stare at him in shock.

“No, Eames,” he repeats and it’s quieter. But the heat is still there. Arthur is flushing and his eyes are bright. All the volume in him is turned up. Eames did that. “I need you to listen to me. I’ve been chasing the wrong men trying to protect myself. I’ve been mistaking love for obligation. And I need you to listen to me.”

“Why,” Eames manages in a choked whisper. It’s meant to be a question, but he knows what’s coming. They both do.

“Because I love you. And I think you love me too.”

Eames shakes his head, but he’s crying and it’s ridiculous. Has he ever cried? Genuinely cried without manipulating? He can’t remember the last time he was held crying, but Arthur has his arms wrapped around him and Eames is bending his head to cry into the shoulder of his expensive charcoal gray suit.

“I’m so sorry, Eames.”

“Fuck you, Arthur.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

—

Eventually, Eames gets himself together. Eventually, Eames presses Arthur against the counter and kisses him so hard he bruises his lips. Eventually, he digs his fingers against Arthur’s hips and bruises him there too. Because Arthur deserves it. Because Arthur is _his_.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers as Eames drags his teeth lightly down his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” Eames grunts and works his tie open.

Arthur is quiet when Eames peels back his jacket and unbuttons his shirt. He lets out a soft gasp when Eames sucks hard at his collarbones. He’ll leave a bruise there too.

“Bedroom?” He suggests quietly and when Eames looks up, Arthur’s face is drawn into lines, ugly and unsure.

“You alright?”

“I owe you an apology. I don’t know how I’ll ever make up for what I’ve done.” 

Arthur’s face is hard and Eames doesn’t like the look. Arthur looks best in his soft, lax lines. “You don’t owe me anything, Arthur. Alright? Nothing owed, nothing kept.”

Arthur nods and leans into him, to kiss him again. Eames meant to say more, but their mouths lock together and he can't seem to unfasten himself from Arthur. He picks him up by the hips and carries him back to his bedroom. Lays him over the bed. His bed. His Arthur.

He slips out the buttons while Arthur watches. Skims his fingers over the fine buttons and pushes the fabric away from his skin. Wonders if Arthur bought himself this suit. With what money? Eames is going to steal a painting, sell it, and buy Arthur new suits. Just to own him.

The thought catches on something and Eames isn't sure what. It's like yarn on a hangnail, painful and irritating and Eames tries to clear it away as he strips down Arthur's trousers.

When he's finally disrobed, Arthur leans up and tugs off Eames' sweater. Laughs at the t-shirt and tweaks Eames' nipple after tugging that off too. Eames jumps and nips at Arthur's jaw in retribution. They both laugh. 

A clean and healthy feeling, to laugh with a lover.

Their skin feels good together. Arthur's skin is cool and dry against Eames' warmer skin. When they slide their hips together, Eames lets out an unholy growl that grinds in his chest. 

Arthur smirks at the sound and tugs him down into a kiss, palm flat against the nape of his neck. "How do you want me?"

The thought catches again. Eames looks over Arthur. Laid out for him. Ribs rippling just under the skin. He'll have to feed him soon. One arm flung over his head. Hair tousled from Eames running his fingers through it. Smiling and flushed pink like a carnation. The thought catches again and again. It'll drive him mad if he doesn't drive it out.

"How do _you_ want _me_?" Eames corrects and Arthur's smile grows.

"Shoulders under my knees. Fold me in half."

This quirks Eames' smile. Only Arthur could be so assertive in such a submissive position.

So he lifts Arthur as requested, slots his hips up against Arthur and looms over him, grinning. "Like this alright?"

Arthur grins back. "Perfect."

They start out slow. Eames just grinding against him and feeling him out. He slips his fingers inside him and stretches him slowly, enjoying Arthur's hitched breathing and parted lips. He wonders how long he could keep Arthur like this. Can feel his calves tense up against his shoulders. Delights in Arthur's writhe when he ducks his head to blow hot air over Arthur's length. Adds a third finger just to see that flush grow. How long could he keep him here? Forever?

The thought catches again and Eames curls his fingers up to get rid of it.

It's Eames who loses his patience first. When Arthur's hips jump up, Eames loses it. He presses into him, hard and unforgiving. Pins Arthur down with one hand to his shoulder. Arthur responds beautifully, tensing around him and throwing his head to the side.

"Fuck," he grits out. 

Eames wonders if he always gets so gruff when he's overwhelmed. He can't wait to see more. He grinds into Arthur harder, just to watch him squirm. 

Arthur tucks his face into his arm. He's shifting his legs and gripping the sheets in both hands. Beautiful.

Eames holds his jaw in his hand, guiding his face back up. "Eyes on me."

Instantly, Arthur looks up to meet his eyes. Eames feels at once a pulse of desire and a pang of guilt. So he shifts an arm under Arthur's hips to haul him up and drive into him.

Arthur gives as good as he gets. Keeps his eyes on Eames and rolls his hips in tight, hot circles. Arthur knows what he's doing. He's unwinding Eames and Eames is loving it.

Their pace picks up until Eames has Arthur's hips into both hands and the bed is slamming against the wall.

"Fuck," Arthur snaps. Gruff, but somehow sweet. "Fuck! More. Harder."

He's loud now that they're not hiding. Eames likes it. Wants to hear more. Wrings out a gasp and whine through the twist of his hips. Grips Arthur in tight, dry strokes and forces from him a long, dirty moan.

Arthur is close to coming and Eames isn't far behind.

"Come on, Arthur. Come for me. Come hard."

He thumbs the slit of Arthur's cock and rabbits his hips into him. Arthur comes with a harsh moan that sounds like it was wrung from him. Tenses around Eames rhythmically until he follows him over.

Arthur's eyes are still on his, dark and hooded. He can barely keep them open, but forces himself to for Eames. And Eames stares back. It's then that he gets it. Why his thoughts are catching.

He laughs and presses their foreheads together. "I don't own you, Arthur."

Arthur huffs, probably under the sudden full weight of Eames' body. He shifts his legs out from under him. "What are you talking about?"

Eames still wants to leave bruises on Arthur’s body. Still wants to hold him close and never let him leave. But he wants to throw out the crane on his bedside table. More than anything, he wants Arthur unkept.

"I don't own you. Or if I do, you own me just as much. You aren't kept here."

"Well, I knew that."

But Eames can tell he didn't. Wasn't expecting this. Can read it in the lines around his eyes and the relaxed slouch to his smile. He's pleased. This is all Arthur has ever wanted. He doesn't want to be alone, but he doesn't want to be kept. Arthur doesn't want to leave, Eames doesn't think. Arthur just wants the freedom to leave if he so chooses.

But Eames isn't sure, so he adds, “If you want to leave you can, I won’t keep you here.”

Arthur laughs softly. “I’ll never stay in one place.”

Eames feels his chest grow heavy. He was wrong. Of course he won’t. Arthur always has somewhere to go. Eames has always been going nowhere. Like when he was a teenager.

But Arthur goes on. “I’ll never stay in one place, but I’ll take you with me.”

Going with Arthur sounds pretty good to Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Okay! I didn't want to write a smut scene, but it felt incomplete without it. I'm not planning on writing an epilogue, but I can be convinced if someone likes. Thanks again.


End file.
